


the times that feel like everything

by notesfromthesea



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Background Relationships, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Canon, Road Trips, Sharing a Bed, as a treat, ben/bev and mike/bill and stan/patty u know the drill, idk what to tag i'm bad at this, richie's pov, they all get to run off together and hide from Real Life for a bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:20:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25591201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notesfromthesea/pseuds/notesfromthesea
Summary: He’d first felt it when he was thirteen, known for sure when he was seventeen, held it with him as a secret unknown even to himself all these years. But Richie Tozier loves Eddie Kaspbrak. Always has, always will.On the verge of blurting it out there and then, he diverts.“Can you believe we ran into each other in New York? Like, what are the chances?”*or: the Losers Club leaves Derry, but they don't go home just yet. And when they go, they go together.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 52
Kudos: 150





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> listen. i know a thousand versions of what happens post-derry round two already exist but this idea came to me and i can't shake it off so here
> 
> a few minor warnings: drinking, swearing, jokes about dying, discussions of trauma, all the usual stuff that comes with canon. however, rest assured that things don't get particularly angsty and it's mostly fun and healing and growing <3
> 
> oh also i had to make a new account so this isn't actually my first ever fic lol but it is my first published clown fic so! yay!
> 
> title is from do not wait by wallows

Richie’s drowning his numerous and inexplicable sorrows at the dingiest bar he can find that’s within walking distance of his hotel when he becomes aware of a figure standing next to him for an unusual amount of time. He ignores them, orders another double rum and coke, and pretends he doesn’t feel their gaze boring into the side of his face.

“Excuse me?”

Richie sighs and without turning to look at the guy, he says “Not tonight, thanks.”

“Sorry?”

“I don’t wanna do pictures right now, sorry.”

“Uh… okay? It’s just, I think I recognise you from-”

“Look, asshole,” Richie says, turning to face the stranger but focusing on sipping his drink rather than the guy’s face. “I just want a normal night, okay? We’re in New York, there’s a drunken comedian or washed-up actor in every other bar. Harass one of those sad, old losers instead.”

“I’m so fucking confused right now.”

He finally lets himself look at the man and feels something jolt deep in his stomach, like a fish hook has attached itself to his gut and yanked him backwards with superhuman force. His neck gets hot, his eyes blurry, and he tries to speak but he feels like he’s choking on the very air around him. He knows this guy. He doesn’t know his name, or his age, or where he’s from, but he _knows_ him. Deep within his bones, the way he knows his own self, the way he knows how to walk and talk and breathe. He doesn’t recognise him, no, it’s different: he’s not squinting at his dark hair and big eyes thinking ‘ _huh, where have I seen you before_?’. He’s staring at him as if he’s looking at someone he loved in a past life that he’s just remembering, which is just too fucking ridiculous for words.

“Do I know you?” he finally splutters stupidly.

“That’s what I’m trying to work out, dickhead,” the man says, and he smiles, though it’s as strained and weak as Richie feels.

“I need to sit down.” Richie staggers from the bar to the nearest empty booth, vaguely aware of the fact the guy’s following him and kind of relieved that he is.

“Look, uh, this is super weird, I get it,” the man says, sliding carefully into the seat opposite Richie. He leans forward to put his elbows on the table, then immediately winces and leans back, arms crossed. Richie’s entire chest aches with- what? Fondness? Familiarity? God, he might actually throw up.

"I feel like…” Richie starts, then trails off, not knowing how to finish that sentence without sounding like a certified maniac.

“Yeah,” the stranger says, laughing humourlessly. “Me too.”

“You too?”

“Sick and sweaty and like you’ve seen a ghost?” He raises his eyebrows and when Richie nods slowly, he nods too. They lock eyes and the feeling resurfaces with even more ferocity than before.

“But you’re fine?”

“I wasn’t. I uh… I first saw you coming out of the hotel. I had a meeting opposite. Literally had a panic attack in my car- why the fuck am I telling you that, Jesus,” the guy rambles, looking like he’d like to melt into the mustard yellow plastic upon which he sits.

“How’d you find me here?”

The guy grimaces and jeez, he's expressive. Uptight and tense, but his face moves at a mile a minute and Richie feels as though all the time in the world wouldn't be enough to study him. Which is, just, yeah. A fucking insane thing to think about a man who you don't recall and who could quite easily be a murderous stalker.

“I don’t even know. Intuition, or whatever.”

“Mild stalking?”

“Guess so.”

Richie takes a deep breath and then downs the rest of his drink. He should be freaking out more, really, though at the same time he should be freaking out less because clearly this is just a case of exhaustion and one too many drinks. The fact that he and Mr. Puppy Dog Eyes are chatting casually about the fact that they’re both having the same otherwordly phenomenon (or whatever) is just too much for him to process right now.

“Look, do you know who I am?” Richie asks, voice nasal and pinched even to his own ears. “Because I can’t even place you and I sure as hell don’t know your name.”

“It’s Eddie.” And there it is again. Fire within his organs, within his blood. He wheezes out a laugh, though the situation is far from amusing.

“Before I say mine, I’m warning you: that made me feel like I was going to empty my guts on the spot.” Eddie scrunches up his nose the way that Richie, somehow, knew that he would.

“Fine, I’m ready.”

“Richie.”

“Holy fucking shit,” Eddie says, hands going to his pockets for some unfathomable reason. He lets out a stuttering breath and Richie’s instinct is to reach over and comfort him, which he doesn’t do for obvious reasons. And maybe some that are less obvious.

“What the fuck is this?” Richie whisper-shouts. “Who are you? Where are you from? What do you do?”

“Jesus Christ, shut up, I’m trying to think.”

“I work in television, are you a showrunner? Radio host?”

“Oh, so you thought that’s how I recognised you, before? You’re famous?” Eddie says, clearly amused.

“Fame is an abstract concept.”

“You’re famous. No, I don’t recognise you. Don’t watch TV.”

“So you _are_ a ghost from another life?” Richie gasps dramatically. He is quickly and stupidly losing the point of this conversation, wrapped up in the natural pull he feels towards this man. He wonders if he’d… no. He’d remember sleeping with someone like Eddie, even though he aims to forget most of those encounters.

“I’m a risk analyst. I could’ve worked on one of your shows?” Eddie says, pretending not to be amused though Richie sees his mouth twitch.

“That shit's done internally, usually.”

“Yeah, plus, this is more than that,” Eddie says simply, worriedly.

“How?” Richie says, voice cracking.

“I don’t fucking know,” Eddie says. He runs his hands through his hair and Richie studies the movement. He’s surprised to find himself unsurprised when Eddie’s next move is to start chewing his nails, then cross his arms again to stop himself.

“Everything you do feels familiar,” Richie blurts out.

Eddie looks back at him. He's on the verge of tears which makes Richie feel stupidly uncomfortable. He scans Richie’s face with a dark intensity and Richie watches his furrowed eyebrows so as not to meet his eyes again. He’s not ready for another electric shock just yet.

“You used to wear glasses,” Eddie says slowly, like an epiphany.

“I still do.”

“Contacts?”

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

A long beat of silence draws out, wedging itself into the space between them. Finally, Richie forces himself to meet Eddie’s eyes again, feeling a trickle of fear make its way down his spine as he does so.

“Fuck this,” Eddie whispers. He stares at Richie for a few more long seconds, then he bolts.

“Hey, no!” Richie gets up to follow as quickly as he can, but he’s had a few too many drinks already and his reflexes are shit at the best of times. By the time he’s pushing his way through the crowded room, he can just about see Eddie shouldering out of the door. He shouts his name a few helpless times, but even if he was closer, the bar’s too loud. He’s gone. Richie bursts through the door and onto the dark, bustling New York street, but the last glimpse of Eddie he catches is as he disappears into a cab that’s too far away for Richie to reach even if he sprinted.

Feeling a desperate sense of loss, feeling as though something has been ripped from inside of him and left behind a gaping wound, he turns and punches the nearest wall. He hadn’t realised it, but he’s crying, and now he’s bleeding, too. Richie spends several long moments trying to breathe and ignoring the sympathetic/frightened looks that passers-by give him. He finally fishes his phone out of his pocket and - inevitably - it’s dead.

He rushes back to his hotel. By the time he reaches in his room, he feels better. He feels the metaphorical wound start to heal itself, though its emptiness is not yet replaced with the fleeting feeling it had acquired in those few minutes with Eddie. He thinks that he hasn’t felt that in years, if ever. He feels as though he will never feel it again: complete.

He stays up until two AM searching variations of “Eddie/Edward, risk analyst” until he gives up hope and also… something more. It’s the oddest sensation he’s ever experienced, but Richie feels as though he’s forgotten what it was he was even searching for, even as he looks at his browser history. Once, his hand twitches towards his wallet on instinct, telling him to pull out an old postcard that had long since been hidden elsewhere. He can’t even remember what it says, but he knows he used to keep it on him at all times, until some point in his mid-twenties when he took it out without reading it. He’d buried it in a drawer somewhere back in his LA apartment and hasn’t spared a thought towards it ever since.

Richie falls asleep in his clothes, dreams of ice cream and tanned skin and scribbled-upon casts, then wakes up and packs to go home in his usual frenzy. He laughs darkly at the scabs on his knuckles; it’s not the first time he’s woken up injured. His eyes sting, and so he forgoes his contacts and shoves his glasses on.

On a surface level, he forgets that the night before ever happens. Deeper down, the emptiness he’s been carrying with him since he was eighteen becomes a little more pronounced. The weight he never knows he’s carrying gets heavier. He forgets what he’s forgotten, but he can’t ignore the hollowness that eats away at his insides, making him become gradually louder and brasher and drunker until he forgets that, too.

Fourteen years later and five hundred miles away, the Losers Club traipses into the townhouse one by one, a comically solemn procession. If Richie had an ounce of energy left in him, he’d make a joke along the lines of ‘man, who died?’ but he feels like that’s probably inappropriate considering they almost did.

Every time he closes his eyes he sees an alternate reality. It's a mixture of the one Beverly had warned them about and the one he'd seen in the Deadlights; one where he hadn’t rolled himself and Eddie to the side in just enough time. One where Eddie had been buried under the ruins of Neibolt, hole in his chest, all alone.

As it is, Eddie stands across the way from him, leaning on Bev wearily and catching Richie's eye with a tired smile.

There’s a quiet moment where they all stop in the empty lobby and absentmindedly form a circle. It’s all too familiar, a little awkward, a little hilarious. Then Bill reaches for Mike and Stan’s hands, and the others follow suit until they’re all connected just as they were twenty-seven years ago. When Richie lets go of Ben and Bill, he glances at his palm and sees exactly what he expected to see: smooth, unscarred skin. It’s over.

There’s not much preamble before people start filtering off to go shower, sleep, cry, whatever. No emotional goodnights or goodbyes. They’re all going to be there in the morning, they know that.

“No one wants a drink?” Richie says hopefully when it’s just him, Eddie, Stan and Bill remaining.

“I need to call my wife,” Stan says.

“Oh, shit,” Bill says, hands on his head. “Same. If, uh, I still have one, that is.”

Richie grimaces his sympathy and watches as Stan slaps a hand on Bill’s back and leads them up the stairs.

“And you, Eds?” Richie says, spinning on his heel to face the last Loser. “Wife or drink?”

Eddie looks up at Richie, exhaustion etched into every line of his face, and smiles.

“Drink.”

“Atta boy.”

Richie shuffles behind the bar (seriously, does anyone work here?) and pours two generous measures of whiskey. He slides one over to Eddie, who’s slouched against the other side of the counter, and they clink glasses. They drink silently for several content minutes.

“Um. I actually don’t have a wife.”

“Huh?” Richie’s convinced he’s misheard.

“Well. I do, technically, but I left her before I came to Derry,” Eddie says, staring into his near-empty glass.

“Left her like, _left_ her?” Richie asks, dumbfounded. Eddie nods. “Why? I mean, if you don’t wanna talk about it, I get it, that’s fine too.”

“No, it’s okay. I, uh, actually have been wanting to for a while. Deep down, I guess. Mike’s call was just the catalyst. We were never going to last for… a multitude of reasons.”

“Shit, Eds,” Richie breathes out. “Why didn’t you say? I know I’m an obtuse asshole but I would’ve reduced the jokes by at least fifty percent.”

Eddie laughs and Richie’s heart lightens a little.

“I guess that’s why. I just wanted things to be normal.”

Richie raises his eyebrows. “Oh, yeah, nothing like a bit of normality whilst you and the homies are battling an immortal alien clown.”

“Not so immortal, after all,” Eddie points out and, God, Richie loves him.

He’d first felt it when he was thirteen, known for sure when he was seventeen, held it with him as a secret unknown even to himself all these years. But Richie Tozier loves Eddie Kaspbrak. Always has, always will.

On the verge of blurting it out there and then, he diverts.

“Can you believe we ran into each other in New York? Like, what are the chances?”

During their initial reunion they briefly told the Losers the story, making it sound funnier than it is, but they haven’t had the chance to discuss it alone. Richie’s desperate to know if it makes Eddie’s heart ache as much as it does his, knowing that they came so close to finding each other again.

Eddie huffs out a laugh, leaning forward to run his hands through his hair and grimacing in disgust at the feel of it. For once, Richie knows Eddie isn’t overreacting. He feels like he’s been rolling around the pigsty at the Hanlon farm which, regrettably, he actually did once on a dare.

“Crazy low,” Eddie answers. “Did you…”

“What?”

“I don’t know how to word it.”

“Try,” Richie says, then winces at his own earnestness. To break the tension, he pours a little more whiskey for them both. Eddie runs his finger around the edge of his glass, contemplative and avoiding Richie’s gaze.

“Afterwards. I forgot you within hours, but something felt different. Like… better and worse at the same time?”

Richie nods slowly, knowing exactly what Eddie’s getting at. He doesn't know how to express it either, not without accidentally laying his heart out for inspection on the grimy wooden bar.

“Yeah. Yeah, me too," Richie says quietly.

Eddie watches him carefully. He's waiting for Richie to say more, maybe even _hoping_ he does, judging by the expression he wears. Richie keeps his mouth sealed shut but his eyes remain on Eddie as he drains the rest of his glass.

"I was glad, though," Eddie says.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It was the first time I'd felt something real since I left Derry. Even if it hurt twice as bad to forget a second time.”

Slamming the rest of his drink back in one shot, Eddie taps his fingers on the bar in a nervous gesture Richie knows so well. Richie watches him, enamoured. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting Eddie to say about their brief encounter, but it wasn’t that. He’s just managed to sum up the gist of what Richie’s been struggling to name for the past twenty years: that everything he has experienced and felt has been, on some level, false. Tears threaten to spill from his eyes.

“Hey,” Eddie says softly. Richie shakes his head and doesn't look at him. “Hey, Richie, it’s okay. We made it. We're back.”

“Yeah.”

He wipes his eyes with a napkin and eventually raises his gaze. Eddie is leaning on the bar with his forearms so that he's closer than Richie expected. He offers a watery smile and Eddie returns it in earnest. He stands up straight for a moment, a jerky movement, then reaches over to squeeze both of his hands over one of Richie's where it rests on the counter. It's just a moment, less than a second. Richie's whole body is alight with it.

“Come on, man. Let’s go shower.”

“Jeez, Eds, take a guy to dinner first.”

Eddie scoffs and rolls his eyes as he pushes himself away from the bar. Richie follows him up the stairs and feels… not awkward, exactly, but like maybe a button they’ve both been hovering over has just been pushed.

They pause on the landing outside Eddie’s room.

“Shit, are you gonna be okay?” Richie says. It speaks volumes about the amount of shit that’s gone on in the past twenty-four hours that Henry Bowers _stabbing_ Eddie almost slipped their minds.

“Oh,” Eddie whispers, clearly coming to the same realisation.

“I could, uh, wait in your room while you shower or something? Or you can use mine and I’ll stay here? Or-”

“Or I could just stay with you,” Eddie says simply. Richie’s brain short circuits then buzzes back to life with alarming clarity.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course, Eds.”

“Wait here while I get my shit,” Eddie says, fumbling in his pockets for his key then disappearing into the room.

Richie paces back and forth on the landing, hands in his pockets. His pulse is pounding at an alarming rate; he can literally feel it in his neck, threatening to break through the skin. He takes a deep breath and tells himself to stop acting like the lovesick teen he’s long since grown out of. _Into a lovesick manchild_ , his brain supplies unhelpfully.

The truth is, he’s nervous. Eddie’s always had the capacity to make him jumpy, because in between their bickering and chastising there’s always been lingering touches and secret smiles. They’re approaching forty fucking years old, but there’s still this thing between them that’s always felt like a private club even within the Losers Club. Richie loves them all, he really does, but what he and Eddie have is a bubble of stupid jokes mixed with fierce protectiveness that the others have never quite comprehended. They’re always each other’s first choice. That hasn’t changed. And it scares Richie because he’s past the point of being able to convince himself it means nothing. Eddie’s stuck to his side like glue since they arrived in Derry, he’s humoured his jokes and played along with his gags, he’s stayed with Richie for a drink, he’s asking to stay with Richie tonight. It’s a lot, to realise that you might be able to get everything you’ve ever dreamed of since you were thirteen.

Eddie comes stumbling out of his room and interrupts Richie’s train of thought.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Richie laughs.

In Eddie’s arms are a pile of things he’d clearly unpacked and had to grab up in a hurry, like his toiletry bag and a few stray items of clothing. He has a backpack and a duffel bag over one shoulder and is dragging a suitcase behind him. He looks fucking ridiculous.

“What?” Eddie huffs, trying to shut the door with his pinky finger.

“You could’ve got some of it tomorrow!”

“I will! There are a few things left,” Eddie says, sounding genuinely confused. Richie’s in hysterics. “Will you be quiet, asshole, it’s like… actually, I have no idea what time it is.”

“Me neither,” Richie says, trying to stifle his laughter. “Come here, you little shit, give me those bags.”

They bicker under their breath all the way up to Richie’s room, which is at the end of the corridor on the next floor up. Then, as they pause for Richie to find his key, they hear something that has them descending into giggles like they’re actually thirteen again.

“Oh my God, please get that door open,” Eddie whines, bringing a shoulder up to his ear to block the sound as if it’ll do much good.

“I’m trying,” Richie hisses. “I’m not sure it’ll help much, these walls don’t scream ‘soundproof’.”

“Anything is better than this!”

He’s a little too loud, and they both realise it, because the noises coming from Bev’s room promptly stop. Eddie growls at Richie to hurry up but he fumbles the key. Before either of them can grab it, Ben’s face is popping out of the door and looking up and down the hallway. Richie and Eddie freeze like deer in headlights.

“Hey, Benny boy,” Richie says, trying to be casual and sounding absolutely insane. Eddie kicks him.

“Oh, hey,” Ben says. He promptly goes red from his face down to his very exposed torso. His lower portion is mercifully covered by a sheet. “Sorry, I was just, uh, making sure everything was okay.”

“Sure.”

“Yeah, no worries.”

“All good.”

“What’s going on?” Bev says, appearing at the doorway in a towel robe. “Hi guys!”

“Hey, Bevvie,” Richie grins.

“Hi.”

There’s a long moment of silence in which everyone is clearly trying very hard not to laugh. Richie’s chest aches with how much he loves everything about it.

“You staying with Richie?” Bev asks Eddie.

“Uh, yeah, my room’s kind of a mess and stuff,” Eddie mumbles. Richie wonders what ‘and stuff’ translates to in Eddie language.

“We’ll help you clean it tomorrow,” Ben offers.

“Thanks, Ben.”

More silence. Richie finally gets his door open.

“See you later, guys,” Richie says. “Be good, use protection, and if you need any tips-” Eddie shoves him into the room before he can finish his sentence. Laughter can be heard from both sides of the door, and Richie’s heart is full.

After spending a solid half-hour in the shower each, Richie and Eddie flop into bed without any awkward ‘I’ll take the floor’ ‘no it’s fine’ delays. It could be that they’re just that comfortable with each other that they know it’s no big deal, unspoken tension or not, but Richie knows they’re just both too fucking exhausted to care. And Richie is. Exhausted, that is. He feels tiredness setting up camp in every bone of his body. He thinks he might pass out for a solid day or so. He’s sure Eddie feels the same.

The thing is, he can’t fucking sleep.

He’s been tossing and turning for an hour at least. The curtains are drawn tight, so it’s not the fact it’s nine AM that’s the problem (though that is a little jarring). Next to him, Eddie’s fast asleep, lying on his back with his arms folded across his stomach. It’s so _Eddie_ it hurts. Surprisingly, he’s also thinking less about everything than he expected to. Not Bowers, nor Pennywise, nor the visions of the barely-avoided deaths that had plagued Richie all the way back to the townhouse. In short, he’s not as scared as he would’ve predicted and whilst that reassures him that it's actually _over_ this time, it's frustrating to lie there thinking of nothing.

Well, almost nothing.

Eddie’s eyebrows twitch in his sleep. In the least creepy sense possible, Richie’s been watching him for a while. He’s being careful to keep to his side of the bed, had promised Eddie he would. He had shown outward horror when Richie had apologetically told him he doesn’t own pyjamas and would be sleeping in boxer shorts and a t-shirt, which has a faded picture of Chunk from The Goonies and some regrettable coffee stains on it. Richie smiles to himself just thinking about it. But he’s just watching. Observing. Taking in the sharp lines of his nose and jaw, his perpetually stressed-out expression, even in sleep.

Eddie breathes in and out deeply, slowly, _that_ much Richie can hear. His chest stays fairly still, though, and for some reason this unsettles Richie. As ridiculous as it sounds, even in his own head, Richie wants to be able to see physical evidence of the air flowing through Eddie’s lungs.

He supposes that if Eddie had gone back to his own room, he might’ve gone a little insane. He has always worried about all of the Losers instinctively, but his concern for Eddie and need to have him close is overwhelming. Richie doesn’t know if Eddie loves him back, not for sure, but caring about Eddie Kaspbrak is in Richie’s second nature. He doesn’t think that could ever change.

In a moment of sleep-deprived insanity, Richie reaches forward and gently places his hand in the middle of Eddie’s chest.

“Hmph?”

“Shit, sorry, Eds,” Richie says, panicking. He snatches his hand away and grasps his own shoulder as if to prevent himself from any other ridiculous impulses.

“Wha'?” Eddie mumbles sleepily. Richie turns his head and can just about make out the way he squints in confusion. “Why’re you awake, dude?”

“Not a clue,” Richie says honestly.

“Oh.”

They look at each other in the half-light. Richie is smiling guiltily, Eddie is still looking shell shocked. Then slowly, he reaches forward and grabs Richie’s hand. He guides it back to his chest and places it there. His eyes don’t leave Richie’s the entire time.

“Why?” Eddie whispers. His hand stays on top of Richie’s.

Richie takes a deep breath.

“Just checking.”

Eddie nods and closes his eyes again. Richie follows his lead. Just as he’s nodding off, in that hazy moment of awareness that exists between consciousness and sleep, Richie feels Eddie intertwine their fingers where they lie over his steadily beating heart.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Losers learn a little more about each other as they are now rather than how they were as kids. Richie suggests the best way to further this is to go away together. Thus, the road trip is born!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few chapter-specific warnings: mentions/jokes about homophobia and internalised homophobia, mentions of misogyny, talk of divorce and a very vague reference to bev's abusive relationship with tom that we will come back to at a later date
> 
> that being said this chapter is still pretty light. the slightly deeper stuff will kick in in chapter three
> 
> hope you enjoy!

Richie wakes with a start, groans, and rolls over to check the time. It’s just past seven in the evening. He feels like death warmed up.

The space next to him is empty.

He panics for all of three seconds until he becomes vaguely aware that the shower is running. Again. He smiles and flops back into the pillows, reaching for the phone that’s been plugged in on his bedside table pretty much since he’d arrived. Richie had turned his notifications off as soon as he got the details for the meeting at the Jade of the Orient, not wanting to deal with the incessant calls he was receiving from his team.

He winces at the sheer amount of notifications, mainly from his manager, Steve. He shoots off a quick email explaining that his on-stage nosedive and sudden disappearance was due to a family emergency, which Richie supposes is only half a lie.

Most of the other messages are inconsequential, and he doesn’t dare to check Twitter. But one thing does catch his eye: a Whatsapp notification from ‘Losers’. He grins and clicks on to it, scrolling up to the start without too much hassle, seeing as it started only a couple hours beforehand.

**MIKE**

Hi guys, hope you all slept well. Thought I’d make a group chat so you could all have each other’s numbers and to stay updated. :)

**BEN**

Great idea, thanks Mike.

**BILL**

Hi everyone can’t believe I’m awake

**BEVERLY**

same here i feel like i ran a marathon then got beaten up at the end

**STAN**

Hello, Losers.

**BILL**

Shall we grab dinner once everyone’s up

**BEV**

YES

**BEN**

YES

**STAN**

Yes.

**MIKE**

That would be great! :)

It goes on a while longer, nothing too interesting, just exchanging updates about how they’re feeling and how they slept. Stan asks if anyone’s seen Richie and Eddie, Bev says she thinks they’re still sleeping. It’s simple and friendly and homey and it makes Richie feel all choked up.

Which is, of course, the moment in which Eddie chooses to creep out of the bathroom.

“What’s wrong?” he says quickly, rushing over.

Richie looks up at him and feels the choking feeling double in strength. Eddie’s dressed in a dark blue t-shirt and tan trousers, his hair still wet and a towel around his shoulders, looking so sincere in his concern that it pulls at Richie’s heartstrings. It’s the simple notion of realising that Eddie’s still here, they’re all still here.  _ They’re alive _ .

“Nothing,” Richie says with a laugh, pressing his palms into his eyes. “God, bet you didn’t expect to see a grown man cry twice in twelve hours.”

“Not really, but it’s not the weirdest thing I’ve seen recently. Seriously, Rich, you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, Eds. I was just reading the new group chat and it just hit me a little bit.”

Eddie smiles softly. “There’s a group chat?”

“You didn’t see?”   


“My phone is buried somewhere beneath Neibolt,” Eddie says, grimacing guiltily.   


“Eddie, you fucking idiot, you took it  _ with _ you? You analyse risks! That is risky!” Richie says, barely containing his glee.

Eddie rolls his eyes and circles around to the other side of the bed to rummage through his suitcase.

“Fuck you, asshole, I thought I might need it.”   


“For  _ what _ ? You thought you’d somehow have signal and tweet live updates?”

Eddie is bright red at this point, clearly humiliated by this very un-Eddie mistake.

“I don’t fucking know! A torch, or something, and I screenshotted a map, just in case,” he mumbles.

“You also took a head torch,” Richie points out, pressing his lips together to stop himself from laughing.

“I’m well aware.”   


Eddie finally finds his toiletry bag and pulls out gauze and medical tape. It’s at this point that Richie notices that the wound on his face is unbandaged.

“Hey, it’s not looking so bad,” Richie says, sitting up a little more to peer at Eddie’s cheek. 

“It’s… yeah. Uh, this might sound weird, but it’s not healing at like… a normal rate.”   


“Huh. Like our scars vanishing?” Richie absentmindedly traces a line down his own palm.

“Guess so.”   


“Well,” Richie says, watching as Eddie applies a new bandage nonetheless. “Suppose that’s hardly a bad thing.”

There’s a few quiet minutes, just Eddie squinting in the tiny mirror and adjusting the tape, Richie observing with a gentle, niggling feeling that perhaps he should offer to help. Then his phone buzzes several times in quick succession.

**BEVERLY**

EARTH TO TOZIER AND KASPBRAK, DO YOU COPY OR DO I HAVE TO COME BARGING IN THERE?

**STAN**

They’re in the same room?

**BEN**

Eddie’s room wasn’t exactly fit for occupation :/

**BILL**

Oh yeah blood and shit

**STAN**

Tactful.

Richie laughs and Eddie eyes him through the mirror’s reflection. He raises his eyebrows questioningly.

“The Losers wanna know that we’re a) alive and b) will go for dinner.”   


“Yes and yes. Anything but Chinese.”

Laughing again, Richie taps out a reply.

**RICHIE**

alive and well miss marsh, but eds is phoneless, so if anyone wants to talk about him behind his back now’s ur chance!!!!

**BILL**

Food now yes or no

**RICHIE**

“anything but chinese” - eddie spaghetti, 2016

**BEV**

i second that

**MIKE**

Third :)

**STAN**

Fourth.

**BEN**

Fifth!

**BILL**

Pussies

They meet in the lobby within ten minutes after Richie has the quickest shower possible and shoves some mismatched clothes on. Mike leads them to a diner a few blocks away. Richie remembers it existing in the eighties, in fact, though with much less friendly staff and seats that Eddie (both then and now) would’ve refused to sit on. Now, it’s simply decorated and clean, and their young server leads them to a booth that’s a bit cramped for the seven of them, but none of them would have it any other way.

It’s funny, really, because they’ve all just gone through hell and back and are most like irreversibly changed within, but the chat is idle as they share burgers and fries and onion rings. They learn more about each other’s lives than they had at their first meeting, when the thin veil of social etiquette and nervousness still remained. Now, they’re candid and open with each other, because there’s nothing like the second coming of the worst experience of your life to mend a bond between losers.

Stan and Bill update them on their phone calls home which apparently went not too badly and fucking terribly, respectively. Bill seems a little glum over it but not as much as Richie would expect from someone whose marriage is crumbling, and so he suspects it’s an Eddie-esque situation in which the end was inevitable.

Stan tells them a little more about his wife, Patricia, who sounds by all accounts lovely and perfect for him. Bev shares a bit too, with slightly nervous glances towards Ben, and by the end they’re all reaching to pat her hand and tell her how proud they are. Ever on-brand, Richie also tells her that her (almost ex) husband is a total dickhead, just for good measure. He wishes she had felt up to telling them the truth at the Jade of the Orient, but he understands why she couldn’t.

“Wow, three divorces at once,” Eddie says softly. “We could start our own support group.”

Everyone laughs and Richie almost chokes on his milkshake.

“You too, Eds?” Bev asks.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry to drop it in like that but rest assured I’m nowhere near heartbroken.”

“Well,” Bev says, raising her milkshake to him in a toast. “Here’s to getting out of shitty marriages.”

Talk turns to the inevitable: what next?

“I’m getting out of here,” Mike announces.

“Where will you go?” Stan asks.

“Anywhere. Everywhere. Me and the world have got some catching up to do.”

“That’s great, Mikey,” Bev says, sounding a little overcome by emotion.

“I was thinking of travelling, too,” Bill adds. “Get some inspiration for my next book. Clear my head, whatever, I don’t know.”   


“Hey, you’re welcome to join me any time,” Mike says softly. “Any of you are.”

Richie is overcome with a sudden, strong notion that he doesn’t want to go home just yet. And judging by what he’s hearing, no one else does either, except possibly Stan. An idea strikes.

“Let’s go somewhere together.”

“Huh?”

“Like, a holiday?”   


“Sure,” Richie shrugs. “We all wanna get the fuck out of Derry, right? And none of us seem to have it together exactly. Like, sure, we’ve got some shit to sort out, but couldn’t we just… get away for a bit? Leave the real shit for another week?”

A contemplative silence follows. Everyone’s reactions are different, from Bev and Ben’s shared look, Stan’s thoughtful gaze, Bill’s fidgeting, Mike’s smile to Eddie’s… something. Richie likes to think he still knows Eddie pretty well, the years apart foreign to them but not removing the familiarity that lingers. He knows his expressions, knows his mannerisms, could usually predict his next move if he wanted to. But now his stare is blank, his chin lifted, and his eyes bore into Richie as if he’s trying out telepathy. It’s unnerving. Most of the time, Richie would scream at the top of his lungs to keep Eddie’s eyes on him, but right now he could really do without it.

“I, uh, have a cabin,” Ben says, inexplicably nervous. “Just outside of Montpelier.”

“You do?” Bev says.

“Could we use it?” Bill asks, hope reignited in his eyes.

“Well, I’d hope he’s not just telling us to brag,” Stan says, punctuating it with an eye roll. Richie thinks he and Eddie should have a competition.

“Of course not!” Ben says, sounding distressed at the mere concept. “I think it’s around a five-hour drive.”   


“We could go tonight!”

Everyone looks at Richie and it’s all too familiar. Achingly so, in fact. They’re exasperated, fond, amused. Even when they’re sick of the sight of him, he loves them so much his heart threatens to burst through his chest. He thinks he wouldn’t even mind if it did; he knows they’d catch it and stitch him back up again.

“We should probably get some sleep first,” Mike says, ever the sensible one.

“ _ Fuck _ that,” Richie says. He absentmindedly slings his arms over the backs of the booth, around Eddie and Stan. “We slept all damn day.”

“Still…”   


“We’ll stop on the way!” Richie’s on a roll now, determined and only slightly manic. “A motel or something. Come  _ on _ , it’ll be fun. None of us want to stay here another fucking night, right? Eds, you don’t want to stay, do you?”

He makes the mistake of looking at Eddie who is definitely closer than he was previously, nestled right into Richie’s side and pressed against him, rib to rib, shoulder to shoulder. Eddie’s expression is searching, but Richie cannot tell if he’s searching internally or externally. He’s not sure he wants to know.

“No, I don’t.”

“Me neither,” Bev adds. “And I’m not in a hurry to get back home, either. If I even go back.”   


“Ditto,” Bill mutters. Mike pats his arm reassuringly.

As always, inexplicably, Bill’s agreement to the plan dissipates everyone else’s uncertainties, which seems to cheer him up a little. Richie’s hit with an aching sense of pity for his friend, always the leader, who now seems a little broken by the burden of responsibility he felt the need to carry for so long. 

And that’s about the crux of it really: they all need a fucking break. There are other, more selfish, reasons for Richie’s suggestion but mostly he just wants his friends and himself to have a chance to recover before they’re thrust back into the harsh realities of real life. Don’t they deserve a break? Doesn’t, y’know, saving themselves and the entirety of Derry from the grips of an evil supernatural entity ( _ twice _ ) earn them a little time to breathe?

Richie voices this opinion and is met by soft smiles and grateful pats and he has to close his eyes against the sudden wave of emotion that floods through him.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here!” he says.

So they do.

It feels a little like running away from home, which they’d all dreamed of as kids, as they rush back to the townhouse and pack their shit in a hurry.

Eddie makes a quick phone call to extend his car rental seeing as everyone else has already returned theirs or had been taking cabs. Mike rushes back to the library to grab his car - already packed - and then they’re off.

Richie piles into Mike’s car along with Stan and Bill, whilst Eddie drives Bev and Ben. There’s a moment where they all hesitate outside the cars, scattered around the pavement and looking decidedly awkward.

“If we forget-“

“We won’t, Ben,” says Stan.

“But  _ if _ we do. Everyone write my address on their hand or something. That way we’ll have somewhere to meet even if we don’t know why.”

It’s the saddest thing to consider, but Richie can’t pretend he hasn’t thought about it himself. He thinks that losing his friends has always been his number one fear, really. Maybe all of theirs. And It showed them other fears, deeper ones, but the greater reasoning was always to make them feel alone. Because without each other, they’re weaker. 

Richie’s survived losing them once, he’s not sure his soul could take it a second time.

“We’ve got each other’s numbers,” Bev says, voice clear but hands shaking as she reaches out to put an arm around Ben’s waist. “We won’t forget.”

“Let’s do updates every half an hour,” Mike says.

“Agreed,” Bill says, opening the passenger door of Mike’s car. “Jeez, when did you become the leader, huh?”

Mike grins. “Eh, nearly thirty years without Big Bill and you come to realise you can look after yourself.”

“Hey!”

The laughter that follows lightens up the situation once more, and everyone starts to filter off into the vehicles. Richie’s just opening his door when a sharp little finger prods into his back.

“Drive safe,” Eddie says when Richie turns to look at him.

“I’m not driving.”

“You know what I mean, asshole.”

“Yeah,” Richie says. “Yeah, you too.”

And just because he loves to ruin a genuine moment, Richie reaches out and tousels up Eddie’s perfectly gelled hair before retreating into the car, cackling.

“Fuck you!”

“Looks better like that, Eddie my love!”

They drive off into the night in procession, honking their horns and waving their hands out of the window until they lose energy.

“You’re such a flirt,” Stan tells Richie, shaking his head.

“Who, me? Oh, honey, you ain’t seen nothing yet,” Richie the Southern Belle says.

Stan raises his eyebrows, a slight challenge behind his expression. “I bet we haven’t.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Staniel?”

“Means I’m not sharing a room with you and Eddie at  _ any _ fucking point.”

Richie falters, his heart stuttering. He’s fairly certain that Stan’s just joking around, referring to his and Eddie’s raucous ways, but he feels oddly  _ seen _ . And it scares the shit of him, God does it, but he also thinks that there are things he's much more afraid of now. He’s scared of coming out on principle, almost, because it’s what he’s  _ always _ been scared of, not because he thinks his friends will think of him any differently.

_ Do they know your dirty little secret, Richie?  _ he hears the clown sneer.

Maybe, maybe not. But they also know every other gross and annoying thing about him and love him nonetheless, so he supposes nothing’s gonna stop them now.

“So,” he says and Mike turns the radio down. “Do we all know, or do I have to say it?”

“Know what, Rich?” Bill says, turning around to look at him from the passenger seat.

“That I’m gay.”

The silence that follows is a millisecond long, yet it feels to Richie as though it stretches on forever.

“I didn’t know,” Bill says, smiling and reaching to pat Richie’s knee. “But thanks for telling us.”

“Yeah, Rich. Doesn’t change a thing for us, you know that, right?” Mike says, glancing between the road and the rearview mirror to meet Richie’s eyes.

“It doesn’t?” Richie says and he hears his voice break. He’d blanked out on emotions for a minute there, but now that the numb shock has worn off, he can feel his heart pounding and palms sweating.  _ It’s fine,  _ he finds himself thinking.  _ Just a reminder that you’re alive. Your heart is beating, your brain is working and your friends love you. _

“Of course not.”

Richie chokes out a relieved laugh and presses his hands into his eyes, his glasses falling into his lap. Bill’s hand remains on his knee, and Stan’s joins on top of it.

“We love you no matter what,” Stan says, always so simple and earnest.

“Uh. Yeah, I thought so. But just. You know,” Richie stammers out between deep breaths.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Love you too.”

“I know,” Stan says and Richie looks up to find him smiling smugly.

“Ugh, this is so gay,” Richie says, the trashmouth back in business.

“Surely that’s kind of the point?” Bill says, turning back to face the road. Richie barks out a laugh.

Knowing it’s kind of inappropriate, but not caring much and not wanting to lose momentum, Richie makes a split-second decision to text the group chat straight away.

**RICHIE**

let’s get ONE thing STRAIGHT losers: i’m NOT!

**BEN**

What?

**BEV**

oh?

**RICHIE**

i’m gay

didn’t want to wait to tell you guys

cos we’re over here having a very homoerotic time in mikey’s wagon

**BEN**

Oh! That’s great, Richie. Thank you for letting us know. Proud of you

**BEV**

you make a lot of jokes about fucking women for a gay guy

but i love you and i’m happy for you

**RICHIE**

i love you guys

comedy with a side of internalised homophobia, delicious

**BILL**

:(

**RICHIE**

why u texting we’re in the same car

**BILL**

Can’t say :( out loud

**BEV**

eddie is phoneless and driving but he says he’s proud of you too and he loves you

**RICHIE**

give him a smooch from me

Richie looks up from his phone, eyes bright with happy tears, to see Stan giving him the most deadpan stare he’s ever seen in his life. He flips him off with a grin.

Mike’s twenty-minute text rule turns into a constant stream of updates, pictures, and voice notes for the first two hours of the journey. The voice notes are mainly Richie, complaining about Bill’s music choices and singing along in equal measure. It also turns out that Bev’s a big fan of sending unflattering selfies and trying to get everyone’s worst angles. This is how Richie and Stan end up crying laughing over a picture of Ben where they can see directly up his nostrils.

“Hey, there's a motel coming up. Can you text the others and see if they wanna stop?” Mike says, peering out into the dark at a sign.

“Fuck it, go straight to Vermont.”

“No,” Stan and Bill say simultaneously.

“I’ll drive!” 

“It’s past midnight, Richie. We’re stopping,” Mike says, not unkindly.

“They’re happy to stay here,” Bill says, the light of his phone screen illuminating the side of his face Richie can just about see.

“Let’s do it.”

They pull up to one of the least dingy motels Richie’s ever seen, though it’s hardly a five star. He starts laughing to himself immediately, imaging how intensely Eddie’s going to inspect the rooms.

“Where the fuck even are we?” Richie asks.

“Near Augusta,” Stan tells him, grabbing bags and shoving them into Richie’s arms at random.

“You are so wise.”

“There are fucking signs.”

The others park up next to them and come spilling out with groans and stretches. Then, Bev comes running over and flings her arms around Richie, causing him to drop all the shit he was holding.

“You are so brave,” she tells him, pressing kisses to his cheek.

“Miss Marsh, stop it! I thought I made it clear I didn’t swing your way,” Richie says if only to stop himself from crying again.

When she eventually lets go, Ben gives him a hug too, and then everyone’s piling in to join.

“You guys are- fuck, what did I do to deserve you?”

“Not a lot,” Stan says. “We’re just angels.”

“Precisely,” Richie says. They release him and Richie notices the absence of Eddie alarmingly quickly.

“He went to book our rooms,” Bev says quietly, noticing Richie looking around.

“Oh right. Cool. Okay, well. Let’s get going,” Richie says.

They all exchange glances but follow him quietly, gathering up bags and heading into the lobby. Eddie’s leaning against the counter, chewing his fingers like a little kid and watching them approach with something like nerves.

“Hey,” he says. He looks at Richie then abruptly turns to the counter and grabs a bunch of key cards. “They’ve got availability. Got us a room each. Shared for you two.”

He thrusts one card into the hands of Ben then passes the rest out in a rush. He reaches Richie last, placing his key into the upturned palm of his hand a little more gently than he had the others. Then, most unexpectedly, he punches Richie in the arm.

“Nice one, Rich. I’m uh. Yeah. Happy for you, y’know?”

Richie grins and lets out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding. It’s not like he’s been expecting Eddie to secretly be a raging homophone or anything seeing as he’s pretty sure Eddie is on the same wavelength as him regarding whatever’s going on between them. But at the same time, his explicit statement of his sexuality is somewhat of a play on the chessboard of their relationship. He’s now opened himself up to the next step and he doesn’t know what it is, not yet, but he knows that it’s Eddie’s move.

“Thanks, Eds. I believe the quote from Bev was that you’re proud and you love me?” Richie says, teasing him just for the hell of it.

“What?” Eddie says, face scrunching up in confusion. Richie hears Bev’s intake of breath, feels her step forward. Eddie glances between her and Richie, eyes moving so fast it must hurt.

“On… the group chat?” Richie says slowly.

“Oh. Yeah. Right.”

He squints at Bev and then turns on his heel to grab his backpack from the counter. Richie takes a step back without even really realising it.

“Uh, I’m gonna go crash,” Bill says.

“Me too.” 

“Night.”

“See you in the morning.”

They leave the lobby and head towards their rooms one by one or in pairs, all silent with exhaustion and the effect of the awkward conversation that just occurred. Eddie pauses before he turns down a corridor and looks back and gives a stupid little wave.

Richie is still for a long moment and then he turns to Bev and Ben, the last ones remaining.

“So.”

“Richie, I’m sorry,” Bev says, sounding distressed. “Look, let’s… let’s take a walk or something.”

“Okay.”

“Ben, why don’t you head to the room with our stuff, honey?”

Ben nods, clearly feeling uncomfortable and eager to go. He grabs their bags with one arm and uses his free hand to pull Richie toward him by the back of the neck and kiss his cheek chastely.

“You’ll give a man ideas if you’re not careful, Haystack,” Richie says. His voice sounds dull even to his own ears.

Ben laughs and says goodnight and then he’s gone. In silence, Richie follows Bev back outside and then around the building until they find a large outdoor space with a pool that is currently empty. Richie settles down on the edge of one of the loungers and Bev sits opposite, legs crossed and shivering.

“Here,” Richie says, shrugging off his outer shirt for her.

“Thanks. Should’ve thought of that before I ordered Ben away.”

Richie laughs - or, more accurately, huffs out a breath and then groans.

“Wanna explain what the fuck just happened?” he says grimly. “I have a feeling you know.”

“Rich, I’m really sorry. I- I said those things on Eddie’s behalf.”

“Why?”

Beverly takes a deep breath and reaches both of her hands up, wiggling her fingers until Richie takes them.

“His reaction wasn’t what I would’ve expected.”

“Fuck,” Richie breaths out. “Do I wanna know?”

“Probably,” Bev says with a sad smile. “Look, he just seemed… shocked? I read out your texts and he went all quiet and intense.”

“Eddie Kaspbrak?  _ Intense _ ?”

“ _ More _ intense, idiot. He, uh, didn’t say anything, really. Just nodded and said he was fine when I asked.”

“Right.”

“Richie, I really think he’s okay with it, I think he was just caught off-guard.”

“No, no, I know he’s  _ okay  _ with it,” Richie says, freeing one of his hands from hers to push his hair out of his face.

“You do?” Bev asks.

Looking up at her for the first time in a while, Richie finds her searching his face for any clues as to how he’s feeling. He’s seen this expression on each of the Losers’ faces in turn and he gets it; he’s a closed book, a facade of brash jokes and hard to read at the best of times. But as well as that, Bev looks expectant, waiting, and Richie knows she has at least an inkling of what’s going on.

“You know, right? Like, I’m never subtle, but since we came back… I don’t think he’s been, either.”

Bev nods slowly. “Be explicit, Rich. I don’t want to assume anything.”

She rubs a thumb over his knuckles and smiles, still shivering even with Richie’s ridiculous Hawaiian shirt draped around her like a blanket. She lets go of him and produces a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket, lighting one for him and then herself in turn.

“We’re, uh. I don’t know what we are, actually, but something’s happening between us.”

“Always has been, if we’re being honest,” Bev says, smirking at him.

“Oh you’re one to talk, Mrs Haystack.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re blushing!”

“I am a grown fucking woman, I am not  _ blushing _ .”

“Okay, what do you call it when you turn the same colour as your hair?”

“Stop deflecting!” Bev says, still giggling. “So, what, you kissed? Slept together?”

“Fuck no, nothing like that. He did hold my hand until I fell asleep, though.”

“ _ Saucy _ .”

“Jesus, you’re right. I feel like a thirteen-year-old girl.”

“Hey! No more casual misogyny now that you’re pretending to be a middle-aged frat boy.”

“Shit, sorry,” Richie says genuinely. “I hate that part of me.”

He doesn’t even mean to say it, it’s just something that’s been on his mind since he came out a whole two hours ago. Hopefully, this newfound courage will withstand until he travels home, fires his team of assholes who use him as a puppet, and starts writing his own goddamn material. He’s already started jotting down notes for a public statement, although they’re currently a jumbled mess of apologies and excuses that he can’t quite organise just yet. In short, he can’t fucking wait to leave Trashmouth Tozier behind and just be Richie, the trashmouth.

“It’s not part of you,” Bev says gently. “It’s just something you’ve had to do.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“So why do we think Eddie’s freaking out?”   


“He’s freaking out?”   


“I think so, sweetie.”   


Richie sighs. “Maybe he… he doesn’t know where to go next. Whether my coming out means it’s his turn, or something, I dunno. Shit, fuck, should I have not told you about us? Is that outing?”

“I already knew. I only remembered yesterday, but Eddie came out to me before I went to Portland,” Bev tells Richie slowly.

“He… he did?”

“I think it was because I was leaving. No chance of me running off, because I was already on my way.”

“Wow. That’s so fucking sad.”   


Bev presses her lips together. “I know. Fuck Derry.”   


“Fuck Derry.”   


“Look, Rich, I think just give him some space to think it over. He’s newly single, newly reunited with us and with his memories… it’s a lot. I know it’s a lot for you, too, but you’ve always dealt with stuff better than most of us.”

Richie’s nodding, about to respond, when his phone goes off.

**BILL**

It’s Eddie. Where are you?

**RICHIE**

outside round back. you ok?

**BILL**

Coming.

“He’s coming.”   


“Who? Pennywise?”   


“Jesus! No, Bev, what the fuck?”   


“Well, don’t say creepy ominous things and not explain them!”

“ _ Eddie _ is coming  _ here _ right now. No, I don’t know why,” he says, laughing and nervous and exasperated all at once. He hurriedly inhales the last of his cigarette and stubs it out under the chair.

“Oh! Oh okay, I’m leaving.”   


“What? No!”

“He might want to apologise or something!” Bev says, already on her feet and rushing away. “Good luck!”

“Fuck.”

Richie stands, too nervous to be still, and paces the edge of the pool. He reaches the other end of it and stares into the bright blue-green lights that remain on inside of it. Why the hell the lights are on in an empty pool, Richie has no idea, but it’s a decent thing to distract himself with in the few minutes until Eddie rounds the corner and approaches from the opposite side.

“Hey,” Eddie says.

“Good evening, Mr. Kaspbrak,” Richie says in a stupid, sultry voice. “What can I do for you?”   


“Stop that.”   


“Sorry.”   


“Let’s sit,” Eddie says and Richie expects him to head back towards the loungers but instead he hops down the steps that lead into the shallow end of the pool and perches himself on one halfway down. Richie follows, amused and slightly bewildered.

“You not gonna tell me how much bacteria there is in a public pool, Eds?”

Eddie shrugs. “It’s drained. Most of the E. coli probably went with the water.”

“Who  _ are _ you?”

“An adult,” Eddie says, laughing humourlessly. Then, more honest: “Someone who’s done a lot of fucking work on not thinking about that shit constantly.”

Richie lets out a low whistle. “Huh. Good stuff. Guess we’ve got a lot of catching up to do, huh?”

“Guess so.”

There’s a prolonged silence and although there’s a tension within it, it’s not totally uncomfortable. When they’re with the others Richie feels the need to be loud, constantly riling Eddie up, even if just to stop himself for doing anything that would show his true feelings too openly. In moments like this, however, he has nothing to prove. Although they’ve got catching up to do, all of that stuff is circumstantial. On a basic level, Eddie knows Richie inside out.

Richie watches Eddie, glowing ghostly green from the lights that reflect off of the pool floor. He looks soft and sleepy in loose shorts and a plain t-shirt, his hoodie pulled tight by his hands in his pockets. His eyes, however, are as intense as ever as they seemingly attempt to cut lasers into the ground. Richie waits for him to speak first, afraid of saying the wrong thing as per usual.

“I’m really sorry,” he says eventually.

“You- what?”

“I’m sorry, Rich,” Eddie repeats, looking up at Richie with those big sad eyes that make him want to risk it all. “I… reacted so badly. I was an asshole.”

“Hey, it’s okay, I- don’t worry about it.”

“No, no. I made your coming out about me, how it affected  _ me _ , that’s so fucked up, man!” Eddie’s head falls forward to rest on his knee, then snaps up again. “Don’t say that it’s okay, it’s not.”

“Alright,” Richie says slowly, trying to gauge the best course of action here; he’s genuinely not annoyed at Eddie, more worried than anything, but he knows that’ll piss Eddie off even more. “I’m just letting you know that I don’t agree. I don’t feel like… you took anything away from me.”

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

Eddie lets out a long breath. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah,  _ okay _ ,” Eddie says, mouth twisting into a small smile. “You know I am proud though, right? I’m happy you told us.”

Richie’s heart does a stupid little stutter that really isn’t befitting of a forty-year-old man, but whatever. God or whatever other creep is watching over him will have to forgive him, considering he’s missed out on twenty-seven years of pining.

“Ah, yeah. Thanks. I’m happy I did, too.”

Silence again. Richie sees Eddie’s hands shaking, whether from the cold or something else he doesn’t know. In a moment of bravery that can probably be blamed on the fact it’s the early hours of the morning and they’re essentially jet-lagged from their fucked up schedule, Richie shuffles across until he’s right next to Eddie and puts his arm around him. It’s worth the fear of being shoved off, however, to hear Eddie’s little sigh as he leans into the touch.

“Hey, Eds?”

“Yeah?”

“Me coming out doesn’t have to affect you at all. Not until you’re ready. Do you know what I mean?” Richie whispers.

For a moment, Eddie tenses up and Richie squeezes his eyes shut and hopes he doesn’t bolt. This bare acknowledgement that something is happening, that something _more_ is going to happen, feels more exposing than when he’s been on stage in front of thousands. Then again, he doesn’t give a fuck if every single one of the sorry bastards that have seen him perform hates him, as long as Eddie and the rest of the Losers don’t.

“Thanks, Richie,” Eddie finally mumbles, letting his head rest more firmly against Richie’s shoulder.

He exhales.


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Losers arrive at Ben's cabin and explore before having an impromptu group therapy session.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!! i'm only slightly joking about the group therapy so here are some specific warnings
> 
> discussed in this order: bev's abusive marriage, stan's suicidal ideation, (very briefly) eddie's marriage and issues with his mother, and a homophobic encounter from richie's past which is not canon-compliant  
> if you want to avoid all of this, stop reading when bev says "i always wanted to live somewhere like this" <3 please let it be known that i'm not trying to present a perfect image of trauma recovery bc that shit is messy and long and hard!
> 
> also excuse my awful american geography lmao i am a simple english gal
> 
> thanks for the comments so far, pls keep letting me know what u think! :-)

They pack up and get going early the next morning, much to Richie’s disapproval. Apparently, all of his friends have grown up to be  _ morning people _ . He’s so disappointed in them.

Richie sleeps through most of the first hour of the journey until he’s being shaken awake by Bill.   


“What? What?” Richie says, blinking rapidly.

“Chill, dude. Just wanted you to wake up as we leave Maine.”

“We’re in Vermont?”

“Nearly in New Hampshire. Jeez, excellent geography, Rich."

There’s a clipped tone to Bill’s voice which Richie understands. Sure, they’ve left Derry and kept their memories, but will crossing state lines make a difference? Richie can’t remember when exactly he started to forget. It could’ve been the moment he passed the Derry welcome sign, it could’ve been a little while later. It all blurs together, the forgetting. He laughs to himself: he’s trying to remember what it’s like to forget. _Fuck_ that.

“Here we go,” Mike announces, teeth gritted.

Richie closes his eyes like a child.

Nothing happens.

“Oh, thank God,” Stan breathes out, laughing nervously.

“Wait, who the fuck are you?” Richie says. “Am I being kidnapped?”

“Beep beep, asshole,” Bill says.

Bev sends a series of obscure emojis in the group chat that seemingly confirm that they all remember, too. Richie is so fucking relieved. It seems to be the theme of this whole trip, actually: relief. He was relieved to be with his friends, relieved to fight by their sides, relieved to _not_ _die_ by their sides, relieved to tell them that he’s gay, relieved none of them think of him any differently. He supposes it’s a symptom of living a life that consisted of holding his breath for twenty-seven years, waiting to feel like a real person again.

“Hey, Bill.”

“Hi?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.” Bill sounds a little apprehensive, but he turns a little so he can face Richie.

“How do you feel about Bev and Ben?”

Bill’s eyebrows furrow, clearly not the question he was expecting. He turns back so he’s straight forward in his seat but looks out the window, contemplative.

“Happy for them, I guess. I mean, I’m married.”

“So is Bev. Technically.”

“Ha, yeah.”

“You can be honest, Bill,” Stan calls from the front. “Losers don’t judge.”

“I know, guys. But seriously, me and Bev… that’s… it’s a lifetime ago. And I guess seeing her again made me think I had to feel the same way as I did when I was thirteen but I just don’t.” Glancing at Richie apologetically, he adds: “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

“Very mature, Billy,” Richie says, avoiding the very obvious reference Bill’s just made to his own situation.

“I think that… I dunno if this will sound weird, but whatever. With how much we all love each other, it would be easy to mistake that for something more than friendship.”

Richie considers this for a moment, very aware of the wistful expression on Bill’s face. Stan makes a thoughtful sound, but Mike is suspiciously quiet. It’s just an inkling, but Richie feels as though Bill’s talking about something more than his and Bev’s teenage fling.

“I don’t know. No offence, boys, but I don’t feel the same way about you guys as I do-” he cuts himself off abruptly and curses under his breath. He knows they _know_ but had been hoping to avoid the obvious for a little while longer.

“As you do…?” Bill prompts.

“As I do about. Others. That I’ve been with.”

“You’ve got a boyfriend back home?” Mike asks, smiling knowingly.

“Better let Eddie down easy,” Stan says. Little shit.

“Ha fucking ha. Go ahead, continue mocking my lifelong heart-boner for Eddie, fine.”

“ _ Heart-boner _ ?” Bill chokes.

“Yeah, y’know, like horny but with feelings!”

“Shut the fuck up, oh my God,” Stan says, hiding his laughter in his hands.

“One question: how obvious am I?” Richie asks.

“Couldn’t be more. It’s sweet,” Mike says kindly.

“Like, if he doesn’t know, he’s a fucking idiot and you need to rethink your choices,” Stan says, glaring around the seat at him.

“I think he knows,” Richie says, a little quieter than intended. Stan’s expression softens and he nods before turning back around.

“You should tell him,” Bill says, smiling. “We can’t afford to waste any more time.”

“Mm. Yeah,” Richie says. Then a realisation hits. “Wait, so you _didn’t_ know I was gay, but you knew I was... uh. Eddie.”

“Smooth,” Stan says.

“Thanks.”

Bill shrugs. “Didn’t want to assume anything. You could’ve been bisexual.”

“Or Eddie-sexual,” Mike says with a grin, clearly very proud of himself. Richie decides he will allow it.

“You’re all big bullies.” 

“Get over it.”

The rest of the journey drags and Richie manages to fall asleep again until they’re getting a call from the other car to tell them they’re about to arrive. 

Turns out Ben’s ‘cabin’ is more like a state of the art mansion/treehouse. It’s flat and expansive, the wooden walls forming an unusual structure so as to fit snugly into the forest. The entire front wall is glass. It has the illusion of being a part of nature, despite it being so fancy.

“Jesus fucking  _ Christ _ , Ben!” Richie shouts as they stand about in the massive driveway.

“Wow,” Stan says.

“This is beautiful,” Bev says.

Ben blushes beet red but he’s grinning and Richie feels a tug on his heartstrings: it’s a peek of the Ben they knew at thirteen, who had a bashful confidence and was so proud to be one of them.

“Thanks, guys,” he says. “It was my second design.”

“You fucking what?” Eddie yelps. “Dude, that’s amazing.”

“Aw, we’re embarrassing him,” Richie adds. Bev swats at his arm.

As they unpack the cars and make their way inside, Eddie follows Ben around like a yappy little dog and asks him a thousand questions about the safety of the area. He wants to know what animals reside in the forest, the weather conditions at this time of year, whether the building was assessed for structural integrity.

“Don’t question his architecture, you little shit,” Richie says, spinning around on the spot to admire the living space, which is completely open-plan.

“I’m not!” Eddie protests. “I’m just asking because it’s my fucking job, it’s interesting.”

“Sounds like you don’t trust him to me.”

“Oh, fuck off you overgrown urchin. Ben, I trust you, alright?”

“Did you just call him an urchin?” Bill asks, wheezing with laughter.

“Yes.”

“And here I was thinking we’d have a nice relaxing time to recover from yet another near-death experience,” Stan says, already flopped into one of the leather seats that’s placed in the centre of the room.

“I think you may have been a little naive, honey,” Bev tells him.

“So, Ben,” Mike interrupts. “Grand tour?”

The middle of the house contains the main area, with a living room, dining area  _ and _ kitchen that look straight out of a magazine. It’s not impersonal, though; the furniture is warm and wooden, there’s paintings and pots and other decorative items. However, it is big enough that if one of them was at the stove and another on the sofa, they’d have to raise their voices to be heard. The living area itself is larger than Richie’s entire apartment.

Ben shows them to the main bedrooms, which are on one side of the building. There’s three of them, all a very decent size and one with an en-suite. On the other side of the house, there’s Ben’s office, some storage space and another family sized bathroom.

“So someone will have to take the sofa-bed in the office, then there’s two spare rooms,” Ben explains.

“I’ll take the office,” Stan says immediately. Richie throws him a death-glare.

“I guess someone could sleep on the living room sofa, but it’s not particularly comfortable to lie on,” Ben continues, glancing between the remaining four.

“I’m happy to share,” Bill says innocently. “Mike, wanna be roomies?”

There’s only the tiniest hesitation that Richie’s pretty sure no one else notices before Mike says, “Sure.”

Richie’s heart beats wildly, as if he  _ hasn’t _ shared a bed with Eddie in the past couple days. It’s not a big deal. It shouldn’t have to be. He’s more worried about Eddie’s reaction than anything else.

But then Eddie says, “Can we take the room on the right? I like natural light in the mornings.” and the matter is settled. Bill and Mike agree to take the other room and all of a sudden Eddie is shoving bags into Richie’s arms and demanding that he unpacks properly so that his stuff doesn’t get all creased.

Richie follows his commands dumbly, grinning like a fool.

Ben and Bev run out in Mike’s car to grab supplies whilst the others unpack. When they return, they throw together a quick lunch before getting ready to head out on a walk. Richie didn’t exactly pack in a fit state of mind, so he’s fretting about what the fuck to wear when Eddie struts in wearing something that seems eerily familiar.

“Didn’t you wear those when we were kids, dude?” Richie says once he regains control of his brain-to-mouth function.

“What?”

"Those tincy-wincy shorts, whaddya think?”

He allows himself to check Eddie out for approximately two seconds before his face turns bright red under the attention.

“Obviously they’re not the same fucking pair, idiot.”

And Richie _knows_ that but they’re certainly having the same effect on him as they did when he was thirteen, even if Eddie has mercifully paired them with an underlayer of running leggings.

“How are you so prepared? I have fuck all to wear for a hike.”

“Oh, well,” Eddie says, busying himself with zipping up his hoodie. “I, uh. Brought half of my shit, essentially. Impending divorce and all.”

Richie straightens up from where he’d been sorting through his clothes and fixes Eddie with a look he hopes is sympathetic.

“So… you’re not going back to New York?”

“I hadn’t really thought it through.”

There’s a heavy silence as the repercussions of that statement sink in. Richie has a million questions he wants to ask but none of them seem like the right one. He wants to know if Eddie has a plan, if he wants Richie’s help, if he’d been expecting to come back home with one of them ( _ me, please pick me _ , his brain thinks without his permission) or was planning on going elsewhere entirely. As it is, he takes in Eddie’s fidgety hands and deep frown and decides that the inquisition can wait for another day.

“You’ve got plenty of time to decide, Eds.”

Eddie looks up at him, finally, and it’s the same searching look he’d given him in the diner. Richie shifts his weight from one foot to another.

“I’ll go see if Ben has something you can wear.”

Turns out Ben has a whole stack of workout clothes he keeps at this house because it’s where he comes to get away and relax when he isn’t tied down in Nebraska. Apparently some people find exercise relaxing. It’s news to him. 

Richie ends up in a pair of dark grey joggers that fit pretty well. He shoves on his last clean t-shirt which is an offensively bright Nickleback tee he’d been given as a joke by his old assistant. Richie cackles when everyone scrunches up their nose in distaste.

It’s a nice day, slightly brisk but sunny. Richie feels a weird surge of gratefulness that they hadn’t come clown-fighting in winter. He’s walking side by side in companionable silence with Mike, listening to Eddie rant about ticks as Bev listens patiently up ahead.

Suddenly, Ben’s shushing them and everyone skids to a halt. In a clearing to their left, a deer stands peacefully, chewing grass and seemingly unbothered by their presence. They watch it in silence for a few minutes before carrying on.

“I feel like I’ve aged thirty years in three days,” Richie groans, trying to loosen his limbs and continue walking at once.

Mike laughs. “Better than the alternative.”

“Huh?”

“You know. Not ageing at all.”   


Richie’s stunned into silence for a short moment. “Careful, you’re starting to sound like Eddie.”

He gets a middle finger over the shoulder for that one.   


“I like to think I’m still optimistic,” Mike says gently. “But the years alone changed all of us.”   


“I’m sorry you were alone, Mikey.”   


“We all were in one way or another.”

It kind of makes Richie’s chest hurt but he thinks that Mike could be right. He looks forward at Stan, the most happily married and in theory least lonely of them all. Yet even he is becoming more and more alight as the hours go on and it's clear that something was missing for him, too. Maybe some of them have found something worth holding onto in the last twenty-seven years, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t lose anything.

“I’ve got no one,” Richie blurts out. “I mean- there’s my manager and I have an assistant and shit but they’re not my friends. They’re just. There.”   


Mike nods thoughtfully. “I don’t know what it’s like to forget but I get the feeling no one could’ve replicated what we all have. It runs too deep.”

“‘ I never had friends like the ones I had when I was 12’. Or something.”

“Stand By Me?”   


“Great film.”

This segues into a conversation about movies and the ones they all saw together, crammed into shared seats at the Aladdin. Then, Bill floats back and replaces Mike and chats to Richie about the film he was working on before he fucked off to Derry. Bev joins them at one point, and her and Bill discuss the fact they’d almost crossed paths when she was doing costume design a few years back. They all rotate around, drifting into each other’s conversations and it comes so naturally that Richie can’t believe he ever survived without this.

They reach a small lake and flop onto the grassy bank, all still caught up in their individual conversations. Richie ends up next to Eddie because of course he does.

“No tick bites yet, Eds? Wasp stings? Poisonous snake attacks?”

“Snakes are  _ venomous _ , not poisonous.”

“You’re just a little encyclopedia of joyful facts aren’t you, my love?” Richie says, poking Eddie’s shin playfully. 

Richie lies back, propped up on his elbows, whilst Eddie sits to his side with his legs crossed. Eddie snorts out a laugh.

“That’s common knowledge.”   


“Maybe for someone who’s an… uh… snake studier.”

“ _ Snake studier _ ?”

“I don’t know what the study of snakes is called!” Richie says, throwing his hands up dramatically.

“Me neither because knowing the definition of ‘poisonous’ is just basic fucking English, you imbecile.”

“Guess I’ve lost a few brain cells for each year I’ve been a failed comedian.”

Richie sighs dramatically and leans back until he’s lying down fully. He squints up at Eddie, who is looking at him with his signature frown. He starts pulling out grass and throwing it on Richie which is just so stupid and familiar that it makes him feel all warm.

“You’re not a failed comedian, Rich,” Eddie says quietly. “Just a regular one.”

“Eddie. Please. I don’t even write my own material.”

He closes his eyes, hoping for a moment of peace to wallow in his own failure. Eddie has other ideas and prods him in the side until he looks up again.

“You did the best you could with what you had,” Eddie says. “We all did. It’s going to be different now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. If you’re shit it’ll be a hundred percent your own fault.”

“That’s it.”   


“What?” Eddie yelps.

“You’re going in the lake.”   


“Don’t you fucking dare!”

They spend a happy afternoon by the water chatting and napping and dipping their toes in the lake until it’s an hour until sunset and time to walk back.

Richie and Ben co-chef a simple dinner of spaghetti and homemade meatballs. Everyone acts like it’s the best thing they’ve ever tasted, which is probably a symptom of having only eaten quick meals and/or fast food for the past couple of days. That and the fact that they’re all shocked that Richie can cook. Not Ben, _just_ Richie. He’s wounded. Truly.

After the non-chefs clean up the kitchen, they all migrate into the living area and crack open a couple of bottles of wine. Richie endures his friends teasing over the fact he prefers to drink rosé until Bill finally admits that he does, too. There aren't quite enough seats, so Bev ends up squished into one armchair with Ben, with Mike on the other chair, and Bill, Stan, Eddie and Richie squeezed onto the couch.

Bev breaks a peaceful silence by letting out a sigh. “I always wanted to live somewhere like this.”   


“Like what?” Ben asks a little too quickly.

“It’s homely, y’know. Even if it is a bit posh for my taste.” She throws him a teasing smile.

“Chicago not for you, Bev?” Eddie asks.

Bev’s expression grows a little closed off, slightly dark. Next to him, Richie can feel Eddie tense up and can sense that he’s close to apologising but Bev seems to shake herself off just in time.

“I don’t mind Chicago,” she says with a tight-lipped smile. “But Tom wouldn’t let me help decorate the house.”

“He did it all himself?” Stan asks gently.

Bev huffs out a laugh. “No, of course not. He hired some professionals who gave the place as much personality as a hospital.”

“That sounds awful, Bev,” Mike says. She smiles at him softly, then looks back at her hands, where Richie has noticed that she picks her fingers until they’re raw. Now, she crosses her arms firmly and offers another small smile to the room at large.

“You guys get the picture. I know you noticed the bruises. I don’t feel bad about leaving or about this.” She’s speaking fast, trying not to lose momentum. When she says ‘this’ she nods at Ben jerkily and he puts a reassuring hand on her arm.

“You have nothing to feel bad about,” Richie tells her. Everyone else offers assuring words of agreement and her smile grows more genuine.

“I’ve been in contact with a divorce lawyer. It’s happening,” she says. “And I’m throwing in a restraining order for good measure.”

“Good for you,” says Stan. “We’ll help with whatever you need.”

“I don’t know where I want to move yet,” Bev says with an involuntary glance towards Ben. “But I want my own damn place and I want to decorate it however the hell I please.”

“As you fucking should,” Eddie says with no small amount of enthusiasm.

“Similar thing for you, Eds?” Bill asks. Richie ignores the little twist in his stomach that surfaces whenever someone else calls Eddie by one of his nicknames because he’s a grown fucking man and he  _ can _ suppress his jealousy.

“Oh, it’s nothing like…” Eddie trails off, glancing at Bev sheepishly.

“Hey, no,” she says firmly. “This isn’t the trauma awards.”

Eddie laughs reluctantly then takes a deep breath. “I think I’m ready to acknowledge that I essentially married my mother.”

A stunned little silence follows. Richie instinctively nudges closer to Eddie and thinks of what to say but his heart is in his mouth and for one of the few times ever, he’s speechless.

“You wanna expand on that, buddy?” Ben says.

Eddie closes his eyes for a moment then shakes his head. “Not now. It’s over and it should’ve never started, let’s leave it at that.”   


Still lost for words and worried that anything that he says would be too lighthearted, Richie opts to pat Eddie’s knee awkwardly, then returns his hand to his own lap. Eddie shoots him a grateful smile that’s only slightly strained.

Mike fetches more wine from the kitchen and pours it into eager glasses. He’s only had a couple, but Richie can already feel it warming him to the core and loosening his limbs.

“I wouldn’t be here without my wife,” Stan says suddenly.

“That’s sweet,” Bev says.

“No.”

“No?”   


“It is, but it’s not what I meant.”   


“Take your time, Stan,” Mike says, settling back into his chair.

Stan leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. Then he starts talking and it feels to Richie as though he doesn’t stop for a very long time.

“I wasn’t going to come to Derry. I got Mike’s call and I didn’t think I could do it. I… the fear always affected me differently than the rest of you. It made you all stronger in a way. For me, it just kept chipping away until I thought I might lose myself. And so I… wanted to take myself off of the board. I knew it wouldn’t work if we weren’t all there, and the only way to not be there without fucking it up was to… not be  _ anywhere _ .”

Richie’s entire body is numb. Next to him, he feels Eddie shaking. He reaches out and presses the back of his hand to Eddie’s in a way that could look like an accident upon first glance.

“Stan,” Bev breathes out, crying. “I don’t know what to say.”

Stan shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I know it sounds awful. I wanted to be there for you all so badly.”   


“But you were,” Bill says. He’s got his arm around Stan’s shoulders. “You made it.”   


“Because of Patty,” Stan says with a shaky smile. “And because of you guys. She asked me what had happened; pestered me, actually. I wouldn’t tell her at first. But when I started to explain that I had to help my friends, I just ended up going on a rant about how much I missed you all and what we used to get up to. I remembered so much, so fast. When I finally shut up, she turned to me and said ‘well, they must be pretty great friends’. And I was just like ‘yeah, they are’ and cried like a baby whilst she booked my ticket.”

No one says anything much because truthfully, there’s nothing they could tell him that would express their love and admiration and the enormity of their relief. Instead of words, the Losers gather round and hug Stan in turn, kissing his cheeks and grasping his hands. The only thing they  _ do _ say is that they love him and they’re proud of him, which makes Stan cry softly into their shoulders.

“Richie, tell a joke or something, fuck,” he breathes out after Mike’s done embracing him.

“Oh so  _ now  _ you admit I’m funny, huh?” Richie says shakily.

“He didn’t say that,” Eddie says, which gets a quiet laugh out of everyone. Richie scoffs in disbelief.

“You should’ve been the fucking comedian, I guess.”

“Would’ve made less mom-fucking jokes, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, Rich,” Bill says. “What’s that all about? I’ve seen your stuff, man.”

Richie sighs deeply, letting his head hit the back of the sofa. He’d hoped he could get away without being questioned about the deeply humiliating nature of how  _ mediocre _ his act is. Clearly, he’d had more faith in his friends’ politeness than he should’ve.

“I hired my first ghostwriter when I was twenty-six,” he starts, opting for honesty for once in his life. “People liked my energy but my jokes were falling flat. Not much material to call upon when you’ve got clown-induced amnesia, I guess.”

“Did it work?” Ben asks.

“For a while. I worked  _ with _ him, y’know, so it wasn’t that different from what I’d have liked to be doing. A little more heterosexual, I suppose. Not that I was out yet.”

“Not to anyone?” says Bev, pouting in sympathy.

“Nope,” Richie says, huffing out a nervous breath. “That’s the thing, actually. I, uh, got feelings for this guy and he… he caught on.”

“Did he feel the same way?” Eddie asks quickly. Richie avoids looking at him, not knowing what expression he wants to see in conjunction with those words.

“Fuck no,” Richie laughs. “I made a move and he went on this whole homophobic tangent. Bowers would’ve been proud, that’s for sure.”

“Rich,” Stan says, both pitying and chastising. 

“I know, I know.”

“So, what? You fired him?” Bill asks. He’s leaning forward so he can keep his eyes on Richie, gaze concerned.

“Oh, nah. I wish. When I say  _ I _ hired him, I mean my agent did. I asked my agent to replace him but not before he wheedled me into performing some of the worst fucking material I’ve ever done.”

Richie’s barely aware that he’s tapping his feet agitatedly until Eddie presses a hand onto his leg. He ceases movement and finally glances at Eddie, who looks like he might be on the verge of tears. Richie forces a shaky smile.   


“I don’t think it’s on the internet, thank God, but it still fucking haunts me," he continues. "The shit he made me say… fuck, I don’t even wanna tell you. But just imagine the most distasteful jokes you can imagine and you’re probably on the right track.”

He closes his eyes and a tear he didn’t realise was coming rolls down his cheek. Eddie squeezes his leg where his hand still lays. Richie takes a long sip of wine to take the edge off.

“Honey, I’m so sorry,” Bev says. “But I’m confused… why couldn’t you get your agent to fire him straight away?”

“Because he would’ve outed me,” Richie says simply. “And I was a fucking coward who couldn’t imagine anything worse than people knowing about me. By then I was so terrified that I just kept on going with the ghostwriters because I didn’t feel like I had anything to offer.” 

It’s a little more open than he was gunning for, but fuck it. What’s an impromptu group therapy session for?   


“That doesn’t make you a coward, Richie,” Mike says.

“Sure.”   


“No, he’s right,” Stan says. “You get to come out on your own time, at your own pace.”

“Yeah, well, fourteen years later isn’t  _ so _ bad, right?” Richie says, forcing his tone to adapt his usual lightness. By the looks on their faces it’s doing nothing to bring any levity to the situation.

“Better than nothing,” Eddie says quietly.

“You’ve all done well,” Mike says. Seeing their incredulous looks, he continues: “I’m serious. You’ve gone through shit that no one should ever have to experience and you’ve come out the other side as good fucking people. You didn’t deserve any of this, but you’ve got the rest of your lives to orchestrate however you want, now.”   


“Stop saying ‘you’, Mike,” Bill says firmly. “It’s ‘we’. You deserve to be free, too.”

Mike beams, his eyes watering.

The rest of the evening dissolves into more comfortable chatter, discussions of their childhood and fond memories; the good stuff is all they can seem to think of, as if the traumatic experiences that It caused are nothing in comparison to the enormity of the love they shared - and still share. They drink more wine, put on music, and break off into their own conversations. 

At one point Richie sits alone on the couch, watching Bev, Ben, Mike and Bill dance. Stan and Eddie are at one of the windows trying to spot nocturnal wildlife. Richie smiles to himself, wine-drunk and sleepy.

“Richie!” Bev calls. “Come and dance to Fleetwood Mac!”

And he does.

"Richie?"

It's dark and Richie's tipsy, on the verge of falling asleep, when Eddie whispers his name from the other side of the bed. He can't see him, but the volume of his whisper suggests he's close, and that he's facing Richie. It's a little suffocating in the same enthralling way that everything Eddie does is to Richie.

"Yeah?"

"You said you were twenty-six."

"Huh?"

"When you hired that douchebag writer," Eddie explains, voice growing louder in his frustration.

"Oh. Yeah?"

"We met when we were twenty-six."

"We met when we were, like, eight, dude," Richie laughs. Eddie flicks his forehead which makes him yelp and then they're both giggling in the dark like they used to at sleepovers. Richie half expects Bill to shout at them to shut the fuck up just to complete the nostalgia trip.

"No, in New York, asshole," Eddie says through his laughter.

"Oh. Oh! Yeah, we were."

"So had that already happened, or...?"

Richie goes still. He hadn't even connected those dots himself, nor considered the fact that those two events happened close together. He's got his memories back, but details and timings still feel blurry and just out of reach at times. It's frustrating and a little scary; the fear of something important remaining forgotten makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"You're so fucking observant, man," he says. His voice sounds choked even to his own ears.

"It had happened?"

"Yeah. About a week before, I think."

"Fuck."

More than anything, Richie wishes he could see Eddie's expression right now. The only light comes through from the skylight that sits in the middle of the room. There's a hint of moonlight, but it's a cloudy sky, and it barely illuminates anything. As his eyes adjust, all Richie can make out is the outline of Eddie, curled up on his side mere inches away. He wants to reach out as he had on the first night they shared a bed but he doesn't think he could get away with it now. As the days since they killed It pass by, Richie feels more and more like he can't afford to use it as an excuse to comfort Eddie. To touch him. It seems unfair and the last thing he wants is to take advantage. The fact that Eddie has only just left his wife adds on to that to create a cocktail of confusing emotions. Richie knows what he wants, thinks he knows what Eddie wants, too, but he's scared that if he takes it too soon it'll only crash and burn before it's had a chance to settle.

He's waited twenty-seven years. He can wait a little longer.

"I wish I hadn't run off like that," Eddie says miserably.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Maybe we'd have remembered each other."

"I hadn't thought of that," Richie admits. He doesn't want to think of that. His life had turned into a mess of missed opportunities that only hurt him more if he chooses to dwell on them.

"Did you come after me?" Eddie whispers, vulnerable in the dark.

"Yes," Richie says too quickly. "I tried, Eds. You were already getting into a cab."

A long moment of silence, then Eddie says, "I came back."

"What?"

"The next night. Went and sat at the bar for a few hours."

Richie's eyes prickle as he takes this in. "I had to leave the next day. And... I'd already forgotten you."

"I forgot you, too. But I remembered being at the bar so I went back to see what I could remember about the night before. The day after _that_ I couldn't remember anything."

Eddie sighs, long and deep, and Richie can just about make out the way he shoves his face into his pillow like a little kid. He wants to say something uplifting, reassuring, about the fact they remember now and that's all that matters. Unfortunately, that's just not true.

"Like you said, I'm still glad. You made me forget about Tim for a few hours, at least," he tries, aiming for a joke and falling flat. Story of his life.

" _Tim_? The asshole that fucked you over is called _Tim_?"

"What's so bad about Tim?"

"It's a cartoon cat's name."

Richie laughs so loudly that Eddie slaps his hand across his mouth to shut him up, even though Richie can feel him shaking with his own laughter.

"You really should've been the comedian, Eddie baby."

Eddie's hand slides off of Richie's face, coming to rest on his shoulder for a moment, then down his arm. Richie feels little fires set themselves alight upon every inch of skin he touches.

"Maybe I can be your new writer."

"Or my assistant?"

"Go fuck yourself."

Richie falls asleep with a smile on his face.


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie cries, then watches movies, then eats pizza, then holds Eddie's hand.
> 
> It's enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is a pretty short and kind of uneventful chapter? but i needed to add some more introspection and the next one is probably going to be Long
> 
> chapter specific warnings: night terrors, the concept of 'taking advantage' of someone, alcohol, annoyingly rich people
> 
> also i wrote most of this after three double g&t's so...... there's that
> 
> thank you for the comments so far <3

_He sits upon a yellow sofa, plastic and sticky beneath his legs, and is unable to move as he watches._

_Sweat drips down his forehead and into his eyes which burn so badly that he swears he’ll go blind. Yet, the room is cold. Dark. Empty - except for the scene before him._

_Lit up by an inexplicable source of glowing green light: Pennywise. Only… altered. He’s a clown, for sure, but his eyes are familiar and his hair is dark. He’s wearing the usual disgusting clown suit but in his left hand he holds a microphone._

_When he speaks, it’s with Stan’s voice at its most condescending._

_“We all know your secret now, Rich. You’ve been taking advantage of him.”_

_It’s bellowing, echoing, and it chills Richie to his core._

_“Who?” he says, or maybe just thinks, he can’t be sure._

_“Me.”_

_Then Pennywise is gone and it’s Eddie, just Eddie, looking as disgusted as Richie’s ever seen him. They stare at each other for a moment, then another, and then Eddie throws the microphone at Richie with superhuman force. When it hits Richie’s face, it explodes into confetti._

_His eyes refocus and Eddie is walking away into the deep dark nothingness that exists beyond this scene._

_“Eds, come back, please. Please don’t leave me here, man, fuck.”_

_Eddie stops, eerily still, and Richie notices black liquid dripping from his fingertips and disappearing into the air._

_“Don’t call me that.”_

_“What?”_ _  
_

_“Don’t call me Eds,” he says, throwing a glance of blazing fury over his shoulder. “I’m not your fucking boyfriend.”_

Richie wakes up tangled in the sheets and just as sweaty as he had been in his dream. He’s vaguely aware that he’s yelled himself awake and that (mercifully) the space beside him is empty. However, a few short moments later, a gentle knock arrives at the door. Mike peers through, looking sheepish.

“Hey, Rich, you okay?”

“Just swell, Mikey.”

Now that he’s more grounded in his consciousness, Richie feels embarrassed. Not only has he been tossing and turning like a little kid, possibly forcing Eddie out of bed, he realises it’s well into the morning. The sun is well on its way up into the sky and Mike is clearly showered and dressed for the day. He can hear the chatter of the others floating through the open door.

“What time is it?” he asks reluctantly.

“Nearly eleven.”

“Fuck.”

“It’s okay, man. Bev only just got up. Just thought I’d see if you wanted breakfast.”

“Oh,” Richie says dumbly. “So you didn’t…”

“Didn’t what?”

“Never mind. I’ll be right out.”

Mike gives him a funny look but has the good grace to duck out of the room and shut the door behind him.

Richie shoves on his glasses and scrambles upright. He makes a half-hearted attempt at making the bed, knowing Eddie will probably come in and redo it later. Suddenly, he feels very self-conscious about the sweaty, crumpled sheets on his side and grabs his towel from the back of the door, dabbing at the bed frantically.

He catches sight of himself in the mirror over the dresser and lets out a manic little bark of laughter.

His hair is all over the place, his eyes bright red, and it would take more than a professional makeup artist to cover up the bags under his eyes. So much for being surprisingly _okay_ post-Pennywise.

After quickly changing into a different t-shirt and Ben’s sweatpants, he puts on a brave face and heads out of the room.

Breakfast is in full swing and Ben hasn’t done things in halves; there’s fresh berries, juice, coffee, pastries, bacon, eggs and what appears to be a sourdough loaf that’s just out of the oven. The Losers are already tucking in, talking happily and gesturing Richie over with a chorus of good mornings.

They don’t seem to notice his disheveled state, nor the fact he’s hardly spoken, and Richie is both relieved and a little stung.

He excuses himself to shower shortly after eating and spends far too long under the steamy water, letting his skin go red raw under the flow of it.

Bad dreams aren’t new to him. Not even close. He’s been having them since he can (now) remember, even before their first encounter with It. They often feature his friends hating him, clowns mocking him, and that awful unconscious feeling of being _stuck_ to the spot no matter how hard you try to move.

They often feature Eddie. Eddie hurt, Eddie upset, Eddie angry at him. Even when he couldn’t remember him, Richie thinks he was there, an unnamed and blank-faced man that Richie felt desperate to cling on to despite not knowing who he was.

He wonders if Eddie felt suffocated by Richie’s need for him even without contact, without memories and across the country.

Richie washes his entire body three times as he tries to convince himself that he’s being ridiculous.

They spend the rest of the morning lazing around and doing boring stuff like borrowing Ben’s washing machine and sorting out their email inboxes. Richie feels relieved that he’s not the only one that’s been ignoring every one of his responsibilities for the last few days. He decides to concede to his manager’s increasingly impatient demands for a phone call. It goes about as well as you’d expect.

After lunch, a few people start to get restless. Stan reads aloud from an online book about the local wildlife until Mike takes pity and agrees to go birdwatching with him. Eddie bugs Ben into taking him on another hike in a different direction, then bugs Richie with requests to join them.

“C’mon, you enjoyed it yesterday!”

“Doesn’t mean I want to go again.”

“Why not?” Eddie whines, eyes wide and imploring. If he’s doing it on purpose, he’s an evil genius.

“Because I’m not an action man unlike you two.”

“You’ll be fine!”

“Eds, I really don’t want to.”

“Notice how he doesn’t care that we’re not coming?” Bev mutters. Richie only just catches it and prays Eddie doesn’t hear her.

“You’re gonna turn into a grumpy old man who sits in his armchair all day and shouts at kids for trampling his fucking lawn,” Eddie ploughs on. He clearly didn’t hear.

“Fine by me,” Richie says, a little sharper than he’d intended. Behind him, he hears Bev and Bill’s whispers stop suddenly.

“Okay,” Eddie says quietly, like he’s talking to an animal. Richie doesn’t look at him. “Okay. I’ll see you guys later.”

He spins around on his heel and rushes to the front porch to join Ben.

Richie takes several steps backwards and flops onto the couch, ignoring the squawks of protest from Bev and Bill as they scoot over to make room for him. He rests his head back, puts his arm over his eyes and groans dramatically.

Bev pats his arm sympathetically even though he can practically feel the look they’re exchanging over his head.

“That was… interesting.”

“Thanks, Bill. Interesting was my aim, actually.”

“Really?”

“Fucking _obviously_ not.”

“Richie, honey,” Bev says gently. “Did something happen?”

Richie forces himself to sit up like a grown man. He shakes his head dejectedly.

“Not anything like you’re thinking of, I’ll bet,” he says.

“We weren’t thinking of anything,” Bill says.

“You two talk like twins sometimes, you know that?” Richie jibes.

The silence stretches a beat too long so he forces himself to meet their gazes. Bev is smiling but her eyes remain worried, whereas Bill just looks intensely curious. Wedged in between them with their full attention on him, he has the strangest thought that he feels like their kid.

“So you’re avoiding him?” Bev says, straightforward as ever.

“No! No. Well, yeah. Maybe.”

“Why?”

 _Good question_ , Richie thinks bitterly.

It could be that every time he looks at Eddie, he sees Dream Eddie, who is so disgusted by Richie that he can barely look at him. It could also be that he’s worried that when Eddie looks at _him_ , he’ll see right through him and notice the shame that lives under his skin. It could be both of those things, or nothing at all. As per usual, the issue is that Richie has no fucking idea what’s going on inside his head.

Instead of all this, what Richie says is “I don’t know what to do.”

His voice breaks and he starts crying like a baby.

Immediately, Bev pulls him into her chest and Bill shuffles over to rub his back while he lets it all out. Richie should feel embarrassed, he supposes, but these are his people. They’ve seen him at his absolute worst and they’re still here whispering comforting words and touching him gently. Plus, they’re all about overdue a mental breakdown or two.

“Sorry,” he says eventually, wiping at his eyes. “Fucking needed that.”

“Don’t apologise,” says Bill.

“My shirt is covered in your snot and I still don’t want you to apologise,” Bev says, laughing.

“Shit, s- I mean… okay?”

Bev quickly runs and changes whilst Bill grabs them all some iced water from the fridge. Then, they’re settled back on the couch in their previous position, only with added blankets that Bev grabbed from Ben’s room.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she says as she tucks the soft green throw around Richie’s lap.

“I’m just. Overwhelmed?”

“Mhm.”

“Like… okay, so, he _just_ fucking left his wife and we _just_ killed the fucking clown, but I’m pretty sure he wants what I want? But isn’t that awful timing? And he’s in, like, twice the amount of emotional distress than I am so wouldn’t I be taking advantage? If he’s just feeling vulnerable and I go for it he could change his mind down the line, right?”

“Okay, slow down,” Bill says.

“Sorry.” Richie grins sheepishly when they both glare at him.

“Sweetie, don’t take this the wrong way,” Bev says gently.

“Here we go,” Richie quips.

Bev ignores him. “It sounds to me like you’re looking for reasons _not_ to go for it.”

This makes Richie pause for thought. He hadn’t even thought of that but… he supposes she’s not wrong. It’s almost as if the closer he feels he’s getting to Eddie, the more he’s terrified he’s fucking it all up.

“Maybe?” he says uncertainly.

“Why? Because you know he feels the same, you’ve told me as much,” Bev continues.

“And you’re sure about your feelings, right?” Bill adds.

“Yes! Yeah,” Richie says. “Have been since I was, like, seventeen. Before that, really.”

Richie cringes at his own sincerity.

“So what are you actually scared of?” Bev asks.

The answer is the same as it always has been.

“Losing him.”

Bill lets out a sigh. Richie doesn’t dare look at him. He always feels like an asshole when talking about his fears when Bill has actually lived out his biggest one. It’s not lost on him that whilst they’ve all suffered, Bill’s the one who led them into the jaws of death to avenge his little brother. He’s the bravest of them all. Always has been.

“You won’t,” Bev says firmly.

“And _if_ you did,” Bill starts. Richie and Bev both glare at him; he holds his hands up apologetically, but continues nonetheless. “Wouldn’t it be worth the risk? You can’t live in secret forever, dude.”

"I guess not." Richie nods and rests his head on Bill’s shoulder, suddenly exhausted by the multitude of emotions he’s already felt in one day. He can’t even begin to process what to do next.

“We all deserve to get our lives back, now, Richie,” Bev says. He simply nods again.

“Hey,” Bill says. “Wanna watch shitty films on Ben’s giant TV?”

“Fuck yeah.”

They end up watching two and a half godawful Netflix rom-coms until Stan and Mike get back and demand something higher brow. They’re less than twenty minutes into _Clueless_ when Eddie and Ben return, too.

“That was a long walk,” Stan says, weirdly accusatory. Richie wonders, not for the first time, whether the others have separation anxiety as badly as he does.

“We ended up walking into town,” Ben says. He holds up a paper bag. “Got more wine!”

“Don’t say that word yet,” Bill groans.

“Still hungover, Big Bill?” Richie says, poking his side. “Or should we call you Below Average Bill, now?”

“Fuck you.”

“No, really, I can’t believe we haven’t addressed this yet! _Eddie_ is taller than you. Who’d have guessed it?”

“Don’t bring me into this,” Eddie grumbles, stalking off towards the bedrooms. Richie stares after his retreating back, a little lost already.

Bill meets his eyes when he finally looks away from Eddie, all imploring and eager. Richie shrugs imperceptibly.

The next hour or so is comfortably whiled away half-watching the film, though they’re mostly talking over it. Ben brings out some snacks of popcorn and a platter of hummus and various dipping tools. Naturally, Richie makes fun of him for being so damn healthy.

It doesn’t fail to occur to Richie that Eddie’s acting weird. He stayed in their room for a solid twenty minutes before re-emerging to use the shower, barely saying a word as he passed through the living room. He was in there for a long time before he came back out in clean clothes and looking a little more relaxed, but still offering nothing more than a smile in the general direction of the sofas before dipping out again. Richie’s twitching with the need to go and check on him, to make sure they’re on good terms, but for some reason he stops himself. He thinks of the dream and he thinks of his conversation with Bill and Bev and he stops himself. 

He wishes he was a little braver.

When the movie ends, Ben suggests they make pizzas for dinner. Mike goes and fetches Eddie whilst they get started on the dough; Ben teaches Bev, all encouraging nods and reassuring words. The others hang back at the kitchen island, chopping assorted toppings and putting together a sauce. Oddly, it brings to Richie’s mind the idea that they all live together in an old people’s home or in foster care. He can’t keep up with his brain sometimes.

Bill and Eddie don’t help much, instead lingering by the edge to choose the music and pour wine. Richie wonders whether they’ll do anything else this week other than drink, eat, talk and walk. He hopes not.

Once the dough has risen and pizzas start being assembled, Richie wanders over to the oven to turn it on. Ben stops him with a laugh.

“Did I not mention the, uh, pizza oven?”

“The _what_?”

Ben leads them out of the back door and onto the thin veranda which, unbeknownst to them until now, leads to a large raised area of decking that’s covered by a wooden structure. They all gape as they ascend the steps onto it, admiring the circular outdoor sofa and, behind it, cooking area complete with large barbeque and brick oven.

“I love having rich friends,” Mike says, surprising them all into a fit of giggles.

“Rich, Bev, come help me bring everything up?” Ben says.

“Why meee?” Richie whines. His words are completely contradicted by the way he bounds over to follow Ben down the stairs.

Back in the kitchen, Ben finds some trays that Richie and Bev load up with drinks, plates and the handmade pizzas. Whilst Ben is rifling through a cupboard to look for a spatula and pizza cutter, muttering under his breath as he does, Bev gets Richie’s attention by jabbing his side painfully.

“Hey!” he complains, jabbing her back.

“Are you going to talk to him?” she hisses. She swats his arm away with a slap more painful than the aforementioned jab and Richie makes a mental note to never get on the bad side of Beverly Marsh.

“Who? Ben?” Richie whispers back. “I thought you’d locked that down?”

Bev glares at him with all the fire of the sun. He smiles innocently, loading up his tray with cutlery.

“If you don’t sit next to him I’m going to do something really awkward.”

Richie halts his movements, genuinely a bit frightened by that statement. “Like what?”

“Make everyone rearrange themselves because you told me you needed to talk to Eddie.”

“I did no such thing!”

“Exactly,” Bev beams at him.

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

Richie pauses, pretending to mull it over, then grabs Bev by the shoulder and rubs his knuckles into her hair like he used to do to them all (Eddie especially) as kids. She screeches and tries to kick at his shins until Ben hurries over and breaks them up. They’re both flushed, red with the laughter that only increases at the sight of Ben’s appalled expression.

The pizzas are nothing short of delicious. It turns out that Ben is a man of many talents, _including_ manning a pizza oven as if he’s an Italian chef. Richie doesn’t miss the way it makes Bev stare at him in admiration. He feels truly happy for them both; they are affectionate and shy around each other, clearly over the moon with lovestruck energy. He is envious only of their ease and naturalness around each other.

He _does_ sit next to Eddie, partly to avoid Bev’s threats, partly because he actually misses his company. It only takes one well-timed joke muttered under Richie’s breath for Eddie to laugh himself out of whatever funny mood he’d gotten into. 

They stay sitting outside and throughout the night - during which the Losers exchange easy conversation and play a disastrous game of charades - Eddie slowly shuffles over until he’s leant up against Richie, pressed arm to arm. He feels cold against Richie’s warmth, the chill of the evening affecting him to the point of shivering. Luckily, Eddie’s not the only one, and soon Ben’s fulfilling Bill’s request for blankets. Richie and Eddie share one, tucked together under the soft navy material. The outdoor fairy lights are on, casting a gentle glow over the seven of them.

Richie is full of wine and pizza and love for his friends.

“Wait, wait!” Stan’s shouting, slurring his words slightly. It’s so good to see him like this, loose and grinning and loud. “So what’s the tally here?”

“Me, Richie and Bev _do_ believe in ghosts,” Bill says. He counts on his fingers like a child. “You and Ben don’t, Mike and Eddie are undecided.”

“I’m not undecided!” Mike protests. “I’m open. Just not one hundred _percent_.”

“Okay, so you get your own category,” Bill says, throwing a glowing look at Mike. Huh.

“So the believers win either way!” Richie exclaims. 

A little wine spills out of his glass in his enthusiasm and Eddie glares at him, blotting at it with his sleeve. Even through the blanket, his touch against his thigh feels like fire. Richie smiles apologetically and Eddie smiles back. It’s like they’re talking a secret language. When Eddie settles back down, it’s with both hands under the blanket.

“No, no,” Stan protests. “If Eddie says he doesn’t believe at all, it’s a tie.”

All eyes turn to Eddie expectantly.

“Come on, Eds,” Bev says, grinning, her feet in Ben’s lap. “You know you want to.”

“Eddie, you’re a sensible man,” Ben says. Bev aims a careful kick at him that has him wincing.

Richie’s laughing openly, loudly, overjoyed by the way their competitiveness feels like a bonding trait that they all share. It’s strange, because they’re all so different, but there’s a particular thing they all share. Richie wouldn’t call it confidence because he knows at least a couple of them (including himself) are lacking in that. It’s more like… certainty. They’re getting to know each other again, sure, but they’re also getting to know themselves. And the more time that passes post-memory-gain, the more certain in themselves and their beliefs they all become. Richie supposes that’s called growing. Healing.

Fuck, he sounds like a therapist.

He really needs to get a therapist.

“Hmm,” Eddie muses. He takes a sip of wine, purposefully not looking at anyone. “How exactly are we defining ‘ghost’?”

This sends everyone into a wave of conversation and friendly arguing that gives Richie all the cover he needs. He shifts himself a little bit further away and the little glance Eddie gives him doesn’t go unnoticed. He looks away again and Richie is glad, even though he’d usually do any number of crazy things to keep Eddie’s eyes on him. He doesn’t think he’d be brave enough to carry out this next move with that added pressure, though.

Richie’s left hand holds his wine glass, his right one is free. He slips the free arm under the blanket with a smoothness he’s genuinely proud of - it’s not usually a word he’d use to describe himself. Once situated, he moves in closer to Eddie again. He doesn’t know if he’s hopeful, or projecting, or both, but he thinks he feels Eddie tense up next to him.

Across the way, Bev notices. Richie looks at her automatically, somehow, and blushes at her watchful smile. She has the good grace to look away soon after and distract everyone with some ridiculous definition of what a ghost _actually_ is. Not for the first time, Richie thanks his lucky stars for Bev’s existence.

The conversation around them continues and Richie’s definitely less than half aware of its contents.

Richie’s hand is against Eddie’s. Eddie’s hand is against Richie’s. It’s warmer than the rest of his body, still cool even under the thick blanket. Allowing himself a moment of indulgence, he glances over at Eddie.

He’s clearly more absorbed in the conversation than Richie is, eyes wide and glinting reflectively below the flickering lights. His gaze is flickering back and forth, giving each of their friends equal intention. In true Eddie style, he butts in every now and then with an “Obviously that’s incorrect!” or “Are you fucking serious?” and not bothering to make his tone any less rude than he intends it. 

And Richie loves him, and he loves him, and he wants to show him that he loves him.

So he hooks his pinky finger over Eddie’s. It’s a gentle touch at first, reluctant and loose, so that Eddie can jerk his hand away if he wants to. But he doesn’t. Instead he flinches and then relaxes just as quickly. Richie’s still watching him and he’s _oh_ so glad he is because as Eddie’s still listening to Stan’s rant about the improbability of ghost stories being true, a little smile twitches at his lips. Richie’s not sure how he knows it’s meant for him and not Stan’s speech but somehow, he does. It’s the smallest curve at the corner of lips, one that he’s seen before aimed at him, and it seems to say _I’m here_. Even if it’s not obvious, nor sent in his direction, Richie sees it and he raises it.

He slides his whole hand over Eddie’s and gives it a gentle squeeze.

Eddie’s breath hitches and he turns his palm over underneath Richie’s. Their fingers slot together like puzzle pieces.

Richie finally tears his eyes away from Eddie and tries to catch wind of the chain of conversation. Luckily, he doesn’t have to add much before Eddie speaks up over Bill.

“I’ve decided I believe in ghosts.”

And Richie loves him, and he loves him, and he wants to tell him that he loves him.


	5. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie and Eddie sit by several bodies of water and do a lot of talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nervous to post this even tho hardly anyone's reading??? what is this
> 
> anyway thanks so much if you've read this far! i hope you enjoy this chapter <3
> 
> specific warnings: minor misogynistic language, jokes of a sexual nature, jokes pertaining death/suicide, mention of death(s) from cancer, general discussion of canon-typical trauma and sonia's abusive nature

“We held hands again,” Richie whispers.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Bev replies.

It’s the next day and Richie is, unsurprisingly, in a state of emotional distress. The night before had been fun and borderline magical but once again the flow of wine had taken over and made him pass out before he got a chance to talk to Eddie alone. Actually, more specifically: Eddie had fallen asleep on the outdoor sofa and Richie had just about prodded him back into their bedroom and under the duvet before they were both snoring through the night. Richie wonders when they turned into an old married couple.

Then again, he remembers Stan calling them that very thing when they were only fourteen. Maybe less has changed than they even realise.

Speak of the devil. “Why are we whispering?” Stan says.

“Richie got to one quarter of a base with Eddie,” Bev tells him conspiratorially.

“If that,” Richie adds miserably.

They’re gathered around the washing machine, loading it up with the blankets from the night before seeing as most of them ended up with wine or pizza sauce on them. Richie had followed Bev to ‘help’ even though it’s probably not a two man task and _definitely_ not a three man one. He’s certainly not about to send Stan away, though. He needs all the help he can get.

Stan fixes Richie with the most incredulous look he’s ever seen.

“What?”

“You haven’t slept together?”

“Wh- no! We haven’t even… anything! No. No no,” Richie stammers.

“I can’t deal with this,” Stan sighs. “You’re a grown man! _Communicate_!”

“You’re very mean. Do you treat Patricia like this, Stanley?” Richie says, if only to deflect.

“No because she acts her age and not like an overgrown kindergartener.”

“Oof, hitting where it hurts.”

“I _will_ hit you where it hurts.”

“Kinky.”

Stan flicks Richie’s arm. Richie slaps Stan (softly) over the head. This escalates into a full-blown slapping play-fight which Bev watches from atop the washing machine, equal parts amused and exasperated.

It ends when Eddie walks in and stares at them as if they’re completely insane. Which… yeah, fair enough.

“Hi, Eds,” Richie says breathlessly through the headlock Stan’s got him in.

“Hi?” Eddie says. “I was coming to see if my adult friends would mind putting my towel in with their washing but I must have the wrong room.”

“Throw it here, honey,” Bev says.

Eddie chucks the towel across to Bev, gives the room one last suspicious look, then retreats slowly as if he’s wary of being drawn into the madness. At this point Richie and Stan are essentially just clinging onto each other for no reason, so Richie shakes him off and stands up straight. He’s embarrassingly out of breath. 

He holds out his hand to Stan. “Truce?”

Stan looks at his hand with some considerable disapproval.

“Only if you agree to talk to Eddie today,” he says.

Richie rolls his eyes. “Fine! Fine. I think I should be doing this on my own time, but sure.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” Bev says as they shake hands. “As if you haven’t been dying for the final push.”

Pretending to be offended, Richie scoffs with a hand over his heart. “Miss Marsh, I cannot believe this… are you insinuating that I am, in fact, a _pussy_?”

Bev scrunches up her nose. “I hate that word.”

Stan delivers one more punch to Richie’s arm before storming out of the room.

Mike drives Richie, Eddie and Stan into the nearby town for the day. Bev has scheduled a call with her lawyer and Ben decides to stay with her for moral support. Similarly, Bill is going to facetime his wife. Or, as he keeps referring to her, his ‘maybe wife’. Richie offers to stay, as do the others, but it seems he wants to deal with this alone. They promise to bring him back a present.

“I’m worried about him,” Stan says as they pull away from the cabin, Bill waving at them from the front porch.

“Me too,” Richie sighs. “I think my short jokes are really getting to him- OW! Eddie!”

Eddie glares at him. They’re seated in the back, Stan’s riding shotgun. Neither him nor Mike turn around at Richie’s exclamation of pain which is fair enough at this point. Richie’s pretty sure he’s going to have bruises all over in the shape of Eddie’s pointy little fingers.

He doesn’t hate the idea.

Mike sighs. “Obviously don’t repeat this - it’s not my place to say it to him - but I think he needs to leave her.”

“You do?” Richie asks.

“It seems toxic,” Mike says with a shrug.

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees. “There’s a lot of that going around.”

They arrive in the town centre and it feels quaint and rural despite the people bustling about. It’s the kind of place that lends itself to winter, looks as if it’d come alive with Christmas lights and a light snowfall. As it is, the surrounding woodlands are still holding onto the last moments of summer verdancy, though the air holds a light breeze. With less shelter than their forest retreat, Richie finds himself shivering. Predictably, Eddie gives him shit for only bringing a leather jacket; he himself is wearing at least four layers. Richie shoves his cold hands down the back of Eddie’s shirt(s) in retaliation. Then again, this is more like a punishment for _himself_.

For a while they stick together as a group, visiting some small touristy shops and buying some extra groceries which they take back to Mike’s car. Eddie runs into a tech store to pick up the new phone he'd ordered in advance while the others grab a coffee. He joins them twenty minutes later, complaining of poor customer service and confusing instructions as he sets up the phone.

Stan finds some museum he wants to visit, local history or whatever, and Mike agrees to go with him. At first, Eddie sounds mildly interested by the idea, but when Richie expresses his ardent distaste he agrees to go elsewhere.

It makes Richie feel a little bit warmer.

As the pairs part ways, Stan throws Richie a not-so-subtle look that makes him scowl. Eddie looks between them.

“What’s going on with you two?”

“An affair,” Richie says seriously. “Patty can’t satisfy him sexually.”

“That’s not what I overheard this morning,” Eddie says with both smugness and disgust.

“What?! What did you hear?”

“A lot more than I wanted to.”

They agree to explore around the town’s outskirts where, according to a quick search, there’s a large park with a few walking trails. Eddie sets a brisk pace that Richie’s pretty sure he’d struggle to keep up with if his legs weren’t ridiculously long.

The park is easy enough to find. The way Eddie had been going on about Google maps’ incompetence, it would’ve been fair for Richie to assume that it would take days and they’d end up lost in the wilderness with no hope.

Fortunately, once they reach the entrance Eddie slows down his painful pace and they end up wandering around a lovely space full of trees, birds and other walkers. A few of them exchange pleasantries or nods as they pass which, inexplicably, makes Eddie flinch every time.

“What’s up with you, Twitchy?” Richie asks after the fourth time.

“Don’t you like- I don’t know. Don’t you feel like they _know_?”

“Know what?” Richie says, mind racing over the many options at play here. Know that they’re visitors? Know who Richie is? Know that there’s a tension so strong between them that it’s almost pulsating?

“Know that we’re fucked up!” Eddie whisper-shouts. Richie can’t help but laugh. “Shut up, asshole, we are! Like, I know it’s actually physically impossible, I’m not a fucking idiot, but I feel like everyone we meet from now on is gonna know that we’re different.”

“Eds, calm it,” Richie says. He pats a gentle hand on his shoulder which Eddie promptly shrugs off. “This is just your brain going haywire because _you_ know you’re different. No one else does.”

“Isn’t that insane to you, though? That we’re going to meet people and know them and like them but never be able to tell them what the fuck we’ve been through?”

Eddie’s looking up at him, his expression so earnest that Richie just thinks: _yeah, sure, here’s all the answers of the universe_. If only they were his to give.

“It’s pretty fucked up,” Richie says eventually.

“But it doesn’t freak you out?”

“No. Everyone in the world I care about knows what’s up.”

“What about your parents?” Eddie asks. He’s walking faster again, hands in his hoodie pockets, as if he’s barrelling towards something unavoidable.

“Oh, dude, I didn’t say? They died, like, five years ago.”

“Both of them?”

“Yeah, same year. Both cancer, both fucking horrible.”

“Rich,” Eddie breathes out. He takes one hand out of his pocket to grab onto Richie’s forearm. Richie smiles at him gratefully, assuming he’ll return to his previous position pronto, but instead Eddie slides his arm under Richie’s until they’re loosely linked. This draws him in close to Richie and his warmth is a comforting addition, even if it does make his heart stammer wildly. It’s one thing to hold hands under a blanket and pretend nothing’s happening but this is open and honest and _real_.

He holds his breath and tries not to move his arm an inch.

They walk around the rest of the park in relative silence until they reach a scenic stopping point; a bench overlooking a pond where ducks and geese dive under the surface like a dance. Richie snaps a picture and sends it to Stan.

The reply is almost instant.

**STAN**

That’s a Barnacle goose.

**STAN**

Also, what a lovely view. Very romantic. Very fitting for serious conversations.

**RICHIE**

fuck off bird nerd

“Why are you all red?” Eddie asks, the little shit.

“It’s the wind.”

“Is it windburn? That can be really dangerous, Rich, if you get it too often your skin cells-”

“It’s not windburn, Doctor K.”

Eddie scowls at him, whether for the nickname or the interruption, Richie can’t be sure. Then, his expression softens and in one quick move he whips his phone out of his pocket and takes a picture of Richie with the pond in the background.

“Hey!”

“What?”

“I wasn’t ready.”

“I don’t want you posing, that's inauthentic.”

“You’re so pretentious.”

“Uh, okay, Mr. I Only Listen To Eighties Music,” Eddie says, voice mocking.

“How’d you know that?”

“Huh?”

“I don’t believe we’ve discussed our current music tastes, Edward,” Richie teases. He’s sat next to Eddie on the bench, now, arm slung over the back of it but being careful not to touch him.

“But I _do_ believe that I mentioned that particular tidbit in a sketch once.”

“Fuck off.”

“You watch my stuff!”

“I don’t- no, you make it sound like I’m a fan. I’ve _seen_ your stuff, man, everyone has.”

Eddie stumbles upon his words and Richie revels in the way the tips of his ears go red.

“My number one fan,” he says, hand on his chest and eyelashes fluttering.

“Why didn’t you tease Bill when he said he watches you! This is unfair,” Eddie grumbles. His arms are crossed over his chest and he glares at a poor, innocent duck with ferocious energy.

“Ah, he’s no fun,” Richie says, shuffling closer until his arm is actually over Eddie’s shoulders and not just the bench. “You’re too easy, Eds.”

Eddie laughs, expression lifting. Not that he was ever actually annoyed; Richie can tell the difference between his real moods and his fake pouting.

“‘Easy’ is not a word anyone’s ever associated with me,” Eddie says.

“Alright, I got you, not a slutty guy.”

“Fuck off!”

“What?”

“That’s obviously not what I meant.”

Richie grins at him and his re-established frown. He thinks it might be one of his favourite things about Eddie, the range of emotions he can go through in a mere minute. Richie’s always thought of himself as someone stuck in one state per time - mostly either super high or pretty low - whereas Eddie feels everything as it comes to him. It’s what makes him so highly strung but also so expressive, which is what Richie finds so fascinating about him.

“You’re not a difficult person, Eddie,” Richie says, still smiling.

Eddie scoffs. “Right.”

“Seriously, you’re not. You’re overwhelming and annoying as fuck, sure-”

“Gee, thanks.”

“-but you’re not, like, hard to love or anything.”

The silence that follows is broken only by the wind and gentle bird noises. Eddie stares out over the water, shoulders stiff as if bracing for a fight, and Richie watches as he scrunches his eyes shut for a moment before opening them and turning to face Richie. Their eye contact is like an electric shock.

Then a phone rings.

“Fuck, that’s me,” Eddie says, voice uneven. “Oh, it’s just Mike. Hey, man.”

Richie full on zones out whilst Eddie takes the call, staring at two birds who are either fighting or mating, he can’t quite tell. His brain is _buzzing_ with what just happened and whether it means as much as he thinks it does. Did he just reassure his friend or did he confess his love? Both? Yeah, both sounds about right.

The phone call ends far quicker than Richie would like.

“Uh, they’re ready to go whenever.”

“That was fast.”

“Yeah, small museum apparently.”

“Oh. Cool.”

Richie extracts his arm from around Eddie with some awkwardness. They walk back to the car park too fast and too quiet and find Mike and Stan leaning against the car chatting.

“Hey, guys. Good to go?” Mike says.

“Sure.”

“How was the park?”

“Nice,” Richie says. “Lots of trees. Birds. Nice.”

“Yeah,” Eddie adds helpfully. He gets into the car and shuts the door a little too hard.

“Really selling it,” Stan says.

“Yeah, well, you can read Eddie’s Tripadvisor review.”

“He wrote one?” Mike laughs as he gets into the driver's seat.

“Probably will,” Richie says to his closed door.

“Richie? Everything okay?” Stan says gently, just the two of them left outside. Richie can feel Eddie’s gaze on him through the window.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

They get back and catch up with the others over either coffee (Richie, Bev, Bill and Stan) or _freshly pressed green juice_ (Ben, Mike and Eddie) (ew). Bev’s legal call went successfully, apparently, though Richie doesn’t understand much of the jargon, having been neither married nor divorced. She cries a little whilst explaining, then gets mad at herself for being upset, which they all talk her down from with a gentle understanding.

Bill is less open about his phone call, stating only that it went ‘as well as it could’ve’. Richie doesn’t know whether that means they’re on the road to mending their marriage, or they’re calling it quits and trying to be civil. No one presses it, though; it’s clear enough by Bill’s closed off expression and body language that it’s a conversation for another day.

Which reminds Richie that Eddie still hasn’t spoken any more about Myra, either. It makes him feel a little shitty for not asking. He reminds himself that they’re all adults, they’re all friends, and they can share whenever they feel like it.

He wonders if this is the new default emotion for him - guilt. They’re all carrying baggage that’s got to be heavier than average, but Richie can tell that each of them is holding it differently. Bev has this anger that all of them can feel pulsating under the surface. Richie’s impressed she’s not yet had a fit of screaming and breaking things, to be honest. Stan’s much the same, though Richie’s fairly sure the anger is directed inwards, which is just so fucking unfair. Eddie’s angry, too, but he’s also still scared, that’s clear enough to see. With Ben and Mike, there’s an inexplicable relief and need to be close to everyone; Richie had never noticed their similarities before, but he sees it clearly now. They’re the glue of the group, holding it all together, whereas their fearless leader is crumbling a little. Big Bill seems lost, confused, like he needs someone to tell him what to do next. They all wish they had the answers.

And Richie just feels… guilty. Like somehow he should be the one to fix all of his friends, even though he doesn’t see any of them as _broken_ , exactly. Like he should be able to joke away the pain and the anger and the fear until they’re one big, happy, _normal_ family.

Like he should be able to tell the man he loves how he feels without the niggling voice at the back of his mind repeatedly telling him _it’s wrong, it’s all going to go wrong._

He supposes he should feel grateful he can fix one of those things, at least.

While the others are whiling away some time playing jenga (fuckin’ losers), Richie texts Bev and tells her to meet him in the bedroom, adding some winky faces for good measure. She appears looking both amused and frustrated.

“I will not be your beard, Tozier.”

“Ha! As if anyone would believe I could land you, Marsh.”

Bev grins. “Thanks but also shut up, you’re lovely.”

“Grew into my looks after all, huh?”

“Whatever the fuck that means,” she says, grinning. “To what do I owe this sneaky pleasure?”

“I have a plan.”

Bev squeals and Richie rushes over to shush her, sending them both into a fit of giggles. Once calm, he explains the plan and instructs her on her role. She springs into action straight away.

They work in unison, taking turns being in action whilst the other distracts the rest of the Losers. Stan catches on pretty quickly, the little genius, shifting himself to block Eddie’s view whilst Bev is collecting the necessities from the kitchen. Mike seems to know something is up, too, glancing around at everyone to see who else is in on the secret. Bill and Ben, bless them, are oblivious but enthusiastic enough about the game at play that they add a welcome distraction.

Twenty minutes later and in all honesty, sooner than he was anticipating, Richie and Bev are back in his bedroom and packing up the basket. Because of course Ben has a picnic basket lying around.

They’re talking in hushed tones, rushed and excited, when someone tries to open the door.

“Just a minute!” Richie practically shouts, shoving everything into Bev’s arms and pointing manically at the wardrobe.

When Richie opens the door a crack, Eddie looks absolutely incensed.

“Why the fuck is the door locked? This is my room, too, y’know! I could’ve needed an antihistamine or inhaler or-”

“Eddie, d’ya wanna go out for dinner tonight?”

“You what?”

Richie smiles in spite of his nerves. “Us. Dinner. In like an hour, let’s say?”

Eddie narrows his eyes. “That’s an early dinner.”

“It’s a bit of a walk.”

“Oh? You have somewhere booked?”

“Something like that.”

Eddie does that thing where he bites his cheek to keep from smiling, then remembers his injury and scrunches his face up in pain. Not that it’s too bad of a wound, anymore; it’s healed at a rate that’s almost definitely not natural.

“So… I’m not allowed in?” Eddie says, hand on his face and with a nod towards the mostly-closed door.

“Nope,” Richie says, his smile stretching into a smirk.

Still hiding his own grin, Eddie nods slowly. “Okay then. Can I get changed before we go?”

“Why? You look fine.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “ _Fine_.”

“Great. Good. Very nice.”

“As reassuring as that is, I’d still like to change?”

“He’ll let you know when it’s free!” Bev shouts, voice muffled. Richie doesn’t dare glance back, but he gets the impression she’s been trying to stuff everything into the closet this entire time.

Eddie nods again, one quick movement, looking confused but pleased. Then he does a weird little half-salute and rushes away into the living room.

Richie shuts the door and leans his forehead against it, letting out the breath he’s been holding for far too long.

“That was good!” Bev says, rushing over and grasping his arm. “He sounded excited!”

“You think?”

“Yeah! Confused, maybe, but that’s understandable.”

“You think this is the right way to go about it, yeah? You don’t think I should go ahead and set up first?” Richie says.

“Babe, he’d kill you with his bare hands if you made him walk there alone.”

“Okay. Yeah. Okay. Cool.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

Bev grins and spins Richie around, grasping both of his shoulders firmly. “You’ve got this.”

Richie inhales, eyes closed, exhales, then smiles. “I’ve got this.”

When Eddie emerges from the bedroom, showered and in clean clothes, it’s a curious scene. Wedged between Mike and Bill on the sofa, Richie sits with his head between his hands. Everyone else is leaning in close from their own seats, muttering words of comfort to placate his anxiety. Then Ben is shushing them and everyone’s sat upright, silent, looking between Richie and Eddie with stupid shit-eating grins. Richie rolls his eyes.

“Ready to go?” he asks Eddie.

Eddie looks around at them all with forthright _alarm_. “...Sure.”

“Have fun!”

“Be safe.”

“Let us know how it goes!”

“ _Bill_!”

“The meal, I mean. The food.”

Richie practically shoves Eddie out of the door and turns around to give Bill the middle finger as he grabs the basket. When he turns around, Eddie is watching him curiously.

“Do you want me to pretend this isn’t extremely suspicious?” he asks mildly.

Laughing, Richie replies, “Please.”

“Fine. Where are we going?”

Richie gestures grandly towards the footpath that leads into the woods.

“Seriously?” Eddie whines. “I’m wearing my nice shoes.”

“I’ll piggy-back you over any puddles.”

“You’ll pull a muscle, old man.”

They mimic the walk from their first full day at Ben’s, which is mercifully dry and as flat as Richie recalled. If he’d had the time or sense, he might’ve asked Ben if there was a way to drive around to his desired location, but the walk does calm his nerves a little. It reminds him how _easy_ this can be; how he and Eddie fall back into their usual comfortable routine despite the tension and the doubt and the nervousness. He doesn’t regret holding back from saying what he’s wanted to say ever since they’ve reunited, because he still feels that it was right to sit in the feelings and let them settle, but Richie knows now that he didn’t need reassurance. Eddie himself is his reassurance, with his easy banter and heated rants, his ability to bounce off of Richie as easily as if they’d never been apart. In the same way as the seven Losers click, he and Eddie make sense on a deeper level. They each make up what the other lacks.

Richie should save the sappy thoughts for his big speech.

They arrive at the same spot of the lake as before, but Richie leads Eddie a little further around the water’s edge. He’d scouted it the other day, subconsciously, this particular location. It’s a massive willow tree that stands at the edge of the lake, it’s leaves falling into the water like arms reaching in to make ripples. This next bit is a bit of a gamble, but luck seems to be on his side.

“Okay, don’t be mad.”

“Don’t say something that’ll make me mad,” Eddie says grouchily, brushing invisible dirt off of his pants. His very nice, too-tight-for-his-age-but-still-look-good, dark wash jeans.

Richie grins. “I need you to wait here for a minute. And, uh, turn around, actually. To be safe.”

“Have you actually dragged me out here to murder me? Is that shitty little wicker basket full of weapons? Because, Richie, you could’ve just let me get spiked by a fuck off giant clown claw. Would’ve been quicker.”

“Eddie!”

Richie must actually look a little bit stricken, which he supposes he is, because Eddie relents very quickly.

“I’ll go over there,” he grumbles, storming off to a spot some few feet away from the tree.

Richie allows himself to watch him for all of three seconds before remembering he has a job to do.

He ducks through the curtain of willow leaves with his eyes closed, muttering some sort of prayer to the tree gods that this space is going to be what he’s hoping for. And it is.

It’s a little clearing surrounded by a blanket of leaves, the spaces between branches allowing in the early evening sun in dappled patterns on the ground. Certain angles permit a glance at the lakeside view but essentially it’s a hidden spot. Magical and private. Romantic. Definitely romantic.

Richie starts setting up as quickly as he can, not wanting to ruin too much of the moment by getting shouted at for taking too long. He lays out the two blankets he’d found atop his closet, both checkered and soft. He displays the food as best he can on a couple of wooden boards from the kitchen; cheese, grapes, crackers, dried fruit, bread, preserves and cured meats. Mentally, he makes a note to replace everything Bev had stolen from Ben’s fridge, considering most of it was probably intended for the Losers to have tonight.

On top of the now-closed basket, Richie places the bottle of red wine (gross) and two glasses. Next to them, two paper plates and some cutlery which he quickly inspects for water marks. All good.

He stands up - having to bend a little to avoid his head disturbing the branches - and inspects the scene. He kind of wishes he brought flowers or something, kind of thinks that would’ve been overkill. It’s not perfect, which bothers him, but he doesn’t think Eddie will mind. He’s a perfectionist about some things, sure, but Richie thinks that the effort he’s put in will be more important here. Hopes so, anyway.

“Eds?” Richie calls, stepping out into the open.

Eddie shoots up from where he’d been sitting and poking at the grass, by the looks of things. He smooths out his un-creased shirt and smiles at Richie nervously.

“Ready?”

“Yeah,” Richie breathes out, unable to help from reading into a second meaning of ‘ready’. “Come into my den, monsieur.”

“Ugh, the French would hate you.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Richie moves aside a section of leaf-curtain so that Eddie can duck inside - mostly because he wants to be a gentleman but also partly because if he was to go in first, the anxiety of watching Eddie’s reaction might just kill him off.

Instead, he gives it a couple of moments before he goes in himself. When he does, Eddie is looking everything over with watery eyes that make Richie want to throw himself into the lake. When Eddie looks up at him, his eyes start to sting, too.

“Rich,” Eddie says unevenly. “What the fuck.”

“Ta da?”

“Don’t ‘ta da’ me, asshole, this is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

“Aw, Eds,” Richie says, suddenly ten times more nervous. He scratches the back of his neck. “It’s nothing, really.”

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up. Pour me some wine.”

“Yes, sir.”

They settle on the blanket and Richie sorts their drinks, exaggeratedly wincing at having to drink red wine. Eddie laughs and Richie can tell that he’s pleased at the choice. They avoid the subject of what _this_ clearly is as they eat and drink for a little while, chatting easily about the food and their friends and their week thus far. 

“Fuck off!” Eddie suddenly yelps, swatting at the air.

“Me?”

“No, obviously not. There’s a- fly or something.”

“Oh! I have bug spray,” Richie remembers. He removes the things that sit on top of the basket and fishes out a bottle.

“Seriously?” Eddie says.

“I was worried you’d freak out about sitting in a tree,” Richie shrugs.

“Oh.”

“Fuck!” Richie exclaims as he’s putting the spray back. “I forgot I brought a speaker. Dammit, I’m not good at this.”

“Good at what?” Eddie says.

Richie looks up at him and finds Eddie smiling a little slyly despite the innocence of his words. He takes a deep breath, but stalls for time by connecting his phone to the speaker and putting on music. He chooses one of his background playlists, wanting something that’s neither distracting or accidentally tasteless.

Then he sits up, legs stretched out and leaning back on his arms. Eddie is sat to the left of Richie’s legs, crossed-legged and watching him intently.

“Eddie…” Richie starts shakily. “I- I mean, you know, right? You’ve got to know.”

Eddie shuts his eyes for a long moment then looks up at Richie from underneath dark lashes. He looks troubled, which wasn’t what Richie had been expecting, to be honest.

“Obviously,” he says quietly. “I think everyone knows at this point. We’re not subtle.”

“We? It is ‘we’, then?”

“What?” Eddie says with a little laugh. “You thought it was just _you_?”

“Kind of,” Richie says, embarrassed. “Not really. I just didn’t know if you were… quite as in it as me.”

“I am. In it.”

They look at each other and Richie wonders whether that’s it, that’s all they need, everything else is unspoken and obvious and now’s the moment where they come together and fireworks explode.

But this isn’t a Netflix romantic drama.

“But I think there’s things we need to talk about?” Eddie says gently.

“Okay. Yeah, okay. You’re right.”

Eddie takes a long sip of wine, draining his glass.

“Richie, I’m super fucked up.”

“Hey, what-”

“Wait. Can I just, like, talk at you for a bit? I don’t wanna lose my nerve.”

Richie mimes zipping his lips shut and Eddie rolls his eyes before continuing.

“We’re all messed up in different ways, I know that. But for me… I dunno, I see the way some of the others have been and it’s like they lived _in spite_ of the fucked up stuff, y’know? Whereas I- I lived _with_ it and _in_ it. I let my mother control my life even after she died. I married a woman who reminded me of her so that I could feel some level of protection, no matter how suffocating it was. I took pills I didn’t even know the purpose of and I avoided everything that scared me. Food and germs and people. It’s… I’ve lived a sheltered fuckin’ life, Rich.”

He pauses for breath and Richie debates over whether he should say something, but he doesn’t even know what would be the right thing to say. And he also knows that Eddie’s far from done.

“And… fuck, look, I know this is _nothing_ like that. Like, not at all. But when you saved me from It and looked after me in the sewers I thought… is this all I am? Someone that needs protection?”

“Eddie, no-”

“I know it’s not. But that was my automatic thought. Even though it’s you, and I trust you, and I- I know you’re not trying to smother me or rescue me like some distressed damsel.”

“And that, what? Scared you?” Richie asks, trying to wrap his head around the direction Eddie’s going with this.

“I guess,” he says. “Richie… I’m worried that I’m running towards the first safe thing I came across.”

“Oh.”

“Or, I _was_ worried about that. At first. Because like, I’ve _just_ fuckin’ left my wife and I’ve _just_ remembered you, all of you, and my brain was just like huh. How convenient.”

“Eddie…” Richie says, confused. “I don’t really know what you’re saying.”

“I’m saying that you _are_ safe. You _are_ convenient. But not in all of the fucked up ways that Myra was. More like you make me feel secure and happy and like even though you look out for me, I can look after myself, too. You push me, sometimes too much, but most of the time it’s in a good way. Like… you brought this gross fatty cheese but you wouldn’t have made me eat it if I didn’t want to. And, like, you’ll hold my hand under the blanket and ruffle my hair like we’re ten _fucking_ years old but you wouldn’t push me further until I was ready.”

“Of course not,” Richie says, his smile growing by the second.

“And the timing’s shit, it’s so fucking bad, but I don’t really care? Is that bad to say? I don’t care. My marriage has been over for a long time, deep down. And- and you and me. That’s. It’s so different. It’s not too soon because it’s _us_ , it’s always been us, even when we were kids, right?”

“Eddie…”

“You can speak now, if you want,” Eddie says. He’s still looking at Richie but he’s subconsciously picking at one of the rugs. Richie sits up straighter, a little more into Eddie’s space, and stills his hands with both of his.

“I don’t care if it’s too soon, either. But I also don’t care if you want to wait,” he says slowly, ducking his head so that Eddie doesn’t give into the urge to look away. “I’ve wanted this since I was thirteen, Eds. I can wait a little longer.”

“Thirteen?” Eddie chokes out.

Richie laughs. “Yeah. Tragic, isn’t it?”

“You knew when we were _thirteen_ ?” Eddie shrieks and Richie thinks _there he is_. “Thirteen?! That’s fucking insane!”

“I mean, I didn’t know how to place everything I was feeling. That came more around the sixteen, seventeen, mark. I just knew I wanted your attention all the fucking time.”

“That’s…”

“Super gay, I know.”

“Oh my god, stop.”

“I don’t think you mean that, Eds.”

Eddie’s exasperated expression turns soft. “Guess not. Cat’s out of the bag now, huh?”

“Yep,” Riche says. His grin is so wide that his cheeks kind of hurt. “Can’t pretend to hate me anymore, sorry.”

“I never really did, let’s be honest.”

“Cute.”

“Stop.”

“Cute, cute, _cute_.”

“Richie,” Eddie says sternly. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

Richie shuts the fuck up instantly and watches Eddie’s eyes follow the way his smile drops involuntarily. He should say something, he really should say something smooth and reassuring and sexy.

Instead he says “buh.”

As they kiss, they’re laughing, which is just as ridiculous and just as perfect as Richie ever could’ve expected from them.


	6. six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie and Eddie navigate the rules of their new dynamic over the final few days of all being together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> longest chapter yet! these two don't ever shut the fuck up!
> 
> specific warnings: richie makes a suicide joke and uses somewhat misogynistic language in jest. descriptions of panic attacks/anxiety though not explicitly. smoking and drinking and eating. allusions to sexual content, but nothing specific nor explicit
> 
> next up will be an epilogue :-) thanks so much for reading

The next few days are somewhat dream-like.

They spend a long time in their little willow tree paradise, kissing and talking and laughing. Richie is pretty sure they’re both a little drunk on both wine and adrenaline, stumbling back to Ben’s cabin in the darkness later on. Eddie chastises him for not bringing a proper flashlight and Richie uses it as an excuse to draw him in close for protection purposes. In case of bears, or werewolves, or something.

They arrive back early enough that all the Losers are still wide awake. Then again, Richie reckons it could’ve been three AM and he’d have still opened the door to a gaggle of excited faces waiting to greet them.

Ben is the first to speak, somewhat surprisingly. “Hello. We were just watching Twilight.”   


He says it so stilted, so would-be-casual, that it sends Richie and Eddie into an instant fit of giggles. Bev raises her eyebrows with a smirk, Mike leans forward eagerly, and Bill raises his fists halfway into the air in premature celebration.

“So I take it things went well?” Stan says in a bored tone.

“Yeah. Yes. Uh, very well,” Richie says, eyes on Eddie, who smiles back in amusement.

“Thank God,” Bev sighs. “I’m happy for you guys, really, but I couldn’t have taken one more day of being the middle-man in your high school romance.”   


“Middle man?” Richie says. “Eds, have you been talking about me?!”   


“No,” Eddie says, striding towards their bedroom.

“Liar!”

On their way to their own room, Mike and Bill offer Richie a half-hearted bro hug each. They joke around with him much the same way that Bev had, but he can tell they’re pleased. As they walk off, arms brushing subtly, Richie can’t help but wonder whether they might be next on the list. It’s just a feeling he’s had, recently.

Stan hugs him, too, which makes Richie feel oddly choked up. Bev and Ben kiss each of his cheeks in unison and he actually manages to forgo the very obvious threesome joke that springs to mind in favour of thanking them for their help. Ben waves off Richie’s offer to pay him back for all the food and drink as he helps him to tidy away the dishes and trash. Richie considers the idea that Ben actually might be a heaven-sent angel. 

“He’s a keeper, Marsh,” he tells Bev.

“Oh, I know.”   


Ben grins and turns so red that Richie thinks his face might feel hot to touch.

Once he’s finished clearing up, Richie rushes to his room so fast that he almost trips on a rug. He stumbles through the door with very little grace and grins at Eddie, who’s up to his chin in the duvet and looking decidedly sleepy.

“You took  _ ages _ ,” he mumbles.

“Sorry,” Richie says. “Was doing the dishes.”

“Hmph.”

Richie gets ready for bed with a nervousness that is tenfold in comparison to the past few nights. Not that he hadn’t been a little jumpy about sharing a bed with Eddie  _ every _ night, but there’s no denying that it’s different this time.

“Hurry up,” Eddie whines.   


“Bossy.”   


He’s self-conscious as he changes into a clean shirt and removes his jeans and socks, but it’s not like Eddie hasn’t seen him like this before. It’s just that before, he had no idea if Eddie was watching him. Now, he can feel his eyes burning into his skin even when he faces the other way.

“Stop overthinking and c’mere,” Eddie says, still sounding tired but definitely with more edge than before.   


“You’re one to talk.”

Richie climbs into his side and rolls over so that he’s facing Eddie, who’s still bundled up like a burrito. Just for something to do with his hands, Richie tucks the duvet in around Eddie’s neck, but it’s worth it to see his shy smile - even if he does roll his eyes at the same time.

“One thing we have in common, I guess,” Eddie says eventually.

“Hm?”   


“The overthinking.”

“Not that I don’t like the idea of us having something in common, Eds,” Richie says. “But I think ninety-nine percent of people alive are overthinkers.”

“No way! What about daredevils?”   


Richie scoffs. “ _ Daredevils _ ?”

“Thrill seekers. Adrenaline junkies. People that skydive for  _ fun _ .”

“Hmm. I’ll bet they overthink how cool they’re gonna look jumping out of that plane.”

“Maybe,” Eddie says, laughing. “They probably don’t go insane trying to work out if it means something when their best friend touches their arm, though.”

To be honest, Richie doesn’t even know where to start with that. He opts to reach out and brush his knuckles over Eddie’s cheekbone, watching the way it makes his eyelids flutter.

“Aw, I’m your best friend?”

“Fuck off.”   


“BFFLs?”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“Ah, my little old man.”   


“No,” Eddie says sternly (even as he moves his face forward into Richie’s touch). “No short  _ and _ old jokes in the same sentence.”

“Sorry, Eddie my love.”

Eddie goes a little tense under Richie’s hand. He wonders if he’s fucked up already. Big confessions aside - although Richie hardly had to confess thanks to Eddie - the implications of what had been shared between them had hardly been discussed. They’d spent the rest of their time making out like teenagers and, honestly, laughing at themselves for doing so. It was near-perfect but Richie feels that he needs to know if Eddie feels exactly what he feels. And he needs to know if it means what he wants it to mean. He’ll give him time, if that’s what he needs, but if he doesn’t put his cards on the table once and for all he thinks he might just die.

“Haven’t used that one in a while, huh?” Richie says as a segue.

“That stupid fuckin’ nickname used to drive me insane,” Eddie mumbles, relaxation seeping into his body language again.

“It did?”   


“Mm. Made me blush in front of everyone. Very embarrassing. Ruined my image.”   


Richie sputters out a laugh. Eddie jabs at his ribs. “Sorry, your  _ image _ ? Eddie, baby, I love you but you were the nerdiest kid I ever knew.”

Again, Eddie goes still. His eyes are focused very hard on Richie’s, as big and overwhelming as ever. Richie finds himself glancing between Eddie’s eyes and the ghosts of freckles that are visible in this light and in such close proximity. For some reason he’s drawn to them and he can’t help but think of long-forgotten dreams during the years of memory loss; ones that featured brown eyes and faint freckles and not much else in terms of defining features. He held on to what he could, though, and he feels oddly emotional now that he’s got not only these snippets of Eddie back, but the whole picture. 

Nervous and overcome, Richie keeps talking.

“I was building up to that, y’know? I didn’t mean to blurt it out. I assumed you kind of knew, anyway. Not that I think I know how you feel, and it’s fine if… well, it’s not fine if you don’t but it’s fine if you can’t just yet. It’s fine.”

“Is it fine?”   


“Yeah. It’s fine.”

Eddie’s laughing at him, Richie suddenly realises. And as sad as it is, he doesn’t care if he’s being laughed at or laughed with as long as it’s by Eddie, and so some of the tension in his chest loosens.

“Sorry. But I meant it. It’s really okay,” he summarises.

“Richie,” Eddie says, voice still restricted by his laughter.

“Uh huh?”

“I love you, too.”

“Oh, thank fuck for that.”

Then Eddie’s pressing into him and time runs away with them for a little while.

Getting to kiss Eddie, to touch him, is everything and nothing like Richie would’ve expected. It’s thrilling and overwhelming and amazing but it’s also less  _ scary _ than he might’ve thought. He hates to admit it, but he was worried Eddie would feel breakable, intangible. Like he might freak out any second; Richie supposes this is a symptom of only having relationships that were fleeting and secretive. If he had thought about it properly, which he hardly dared to, he would realise that Eddie is nothing like that. He’s nervous, sure, but he’s as present and vocal as he always is. And when he gently explains to Richie that he’s not ready to go much further than a few moments of wandering hands, he doesn’t feel one bit rejected. He feels safe and reassured, in fact. There’s a first time for everything.

“Hey. Hey, Eds?” Richie whispers into the darkness once they’ve spent a couple of hours enjoying each other’s company. 

“Mhm?” Eddie mumbles, half asleep.   


“Is this… are we. Uh…”   


“Spit it out, Rich. Wanna sleep.”

“Wanna be my boyfriend?”

Again, Eddie laughs in Richie’s face. Again, he doesn’t really give a fuck.

“We’re far too old for this.”   


Richie grins. “Is that a yes?”   


“Absolutely.”

The next day is surreal and a little bit awkward; they spend a long time in their room each trying to convince the other to go outside and face their friends first. They’d gotten off lightly last night, but Richie has a feeling that in the light of the day they might get quizzed within an inch of their lives.

In the end, they leave at the same time, but Eddie’s a little cheat as per usual and runs straight to the shower. As he suspected, a wide range of questions follow. Bill and Bev want to know the sordid details, which Richie refuses to share even though there isn’t really anything  _ to _ share. Mike and Ben, ever the romantics, ask for snippets of conversation which Richie reluctantly provides with a face as red as it can get. Then Stan, the practical asshole, asks how they’re going to manage long distance.

“Jeez, way to burst my bubble,” Richie grumbles, accepting a cup of coffee from Ben.

“I’m just asking!”   


“We haven’t discussed it.”   


“You don’t have to yet,” Bev says gently.

“Right, right. Uh… have you two?” Richie asks, gesturing between her and Ben.

They share a sheepish glance. 

“Yeah, kind of,” Ben says. “Bev’s going to relocate.”

“I mean, things are different for us,” Bev adds. “I can’t really stay in Chicago for safety reasons.”

“Gotcha,” Richie says. Bev looks apologetic and so he pats her head gently then wonders if that’s a weird way to show affection. She doesn’t seem to care, though.

There’s a light drizzle outside and they all agree that a day of movies and games sounds ideal. What this actually turns into is them streaming various interviews of the Losers and laughing at how fucking ridiculous they sound. Unfortunately, Richie has done the most and they’re all  _ horrible _ \- disingenuous and brash and cringe-worthy. He’s never watched them alone, because that would just be incredibly sad, but watching with friends turns out to be kind of hilarious. He supposes that alone, he would’ve had some sort of identity crisis about whether this was the  _ real _ him. The Losers make enough fun of him that he knows that it isn’t, though. Besides, he’s never known himself better than when he’s with the six of them.

Things with Eddie are… confusing, honestly. There’s moments where they’re pressed up together on the couch with their arms intertwined and that feels totally normal. Not scary at all (ha). Then, something happens to emphasise how much of a big deal this all is. Like when Richie touches Eddie’s back whilst he pours a glass of water and Eddie jumps so much that he drops the glass into the sink. Luckily, it doesn’t smash, but still. Moments like that remind Richie that this is very real and sort of terrifying and that even though they’re  _ in love _ and shit, that doesn’t mean it has to come naturally.

In bed that night, Eddie is the one to bring it up, which surprises Richie.

“You didn’t kiss me today,” he says bluntly.

“We literally just stopped making out.”   


“I’m aware.” Eddie rolls his eyes. “I meant earlier, in front of the others.”

“Oh,” Richie says dumbly. “Well, you didn’t kiss me either.”

“You’re too tall.”   


Richie laughs, trying to smooth out Eddie’s frown lines with his thumb.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d be into PDA.”

“I’m not! I just… I dunno, I don’t want it to be  _ awkward _ for us to do that.”

“Eds, it’s okay.”   


“It’s not,” Eddie huffs. He rolls onto his back and crosses his chest, blissfully unaware of how adorable Richie finds this gesture of discontent. Richie props himself up on one elbow to try and catch his gaze.

“Why not?” he asks.

“I’m not a prude, you know.”

“I didn’t think you were?”

“Don’t lie,” Eddie snaps. Richie places a hesitant hand on his arm.   


“I’m not lying, Eds. I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. You freaked out on me a couple times, y’know.”

Eddie glances at Richie very briefly then averts his eyes back towards the ceiling.

“I wouldn’t say I freaked out.”

“Eddie, baby, you froze up like a deer in headlights when I put my arm round you. And you nearly smashed one of Ben’s lovely crystal glasses.”

“Ugh, don’t fucking remind me,” Eddie groans, scrubbing his hands over his face. When he drops his arms again, he’s looking up at Richie and trying to smile. “I’m sorry.”   


“What for?”   


“Guess I am freaking out a little bit.”   


“That’s okay,” Richie says, smiling and running a finger up and down Eddie’s bicep. “We’ll allow it.”

“No we won’t! I  _ will _ hold your hand in public, mother fucker.”

This tears a genuine, hearty laugh out of Richie. “You make it sound like a court-ordered task. Stop forcing yourself, dude!”   


“I’m not! God, I’m not, Rich,” Eddie says, all earnest and deep. He catches Richie’s hand mid-caress and holds it to his chest. “I  _ want _ to hold your hand in public, mother fucker.”

Most unfortunately, Richie is not someone who’s had many people say heartfelt things to him over his lifetime - especially not the last twenty-seven years. And so this small, humorously intended comment from Eddie is enough to make his eyes water.

“Are you crying? For fuck’s sake, come here.”

He lets himself cry into Eddie’s collarbone for all of twenty seconds before he forces himself to grow up and remember the point of this conversation.

“Seriously, Eds,” Richie says, still muffled against Eddie’s chest. “We can take things as slow as you like. I mean it. If that means being chill in front of our friends, that’s fine. No sex, no problem. I’ll do whatever it takes if it means I can have this.”

Eddie rolls Richie onto his back and hovers over him, arm trapped under his neck. Richie ignores his natural bodily reaction to being manhandled and listens closely to Eddie’s very serious speech.

“You will not do  _ whatever it takes _ .”   


“Wha-?”   


“You’ve got me and that’s that. Do not put yourself down or ignore what you want just because you think you know what I want. I will tell you what I want. You have to do the same and we can go from there. This is a relationship, not a fucking dictatorship.”

Richie blinks up at him.

“You’re very sexy when you tell me what to do,” he says like a fucking idiot.

Eddie grins. “You have self-esteem issues.”   


“So do you!”   


“Who doesn’t.”

The next day Richie wakes up to an empty bed and is momentarily panicked by this until he hears Eddie laughing in the other room. He spends a happy few minutes sleepily thinking about how glorious it is to hear Eddie so carefree, when the man himself enters.

“Morning, Ed- oh.”

“Made you breakfast,” is Eddie’s succinct greeting. And an understatement, at that; he’s made Richie pancakes with bacon, fruit and syrup on the side, a coffee, a pot of tea and orange juice - all presented on a wooden tray alongside a little yellow flower in a shot glass.

“I will cry again.”   


“Do not.”

“Tea  _ and _ coffee?”

“Just in case.”

Richie stares at him, now stood by the side of the bed waiting for him to take the tray. Instead, he clears a space on his bedside table and gestures for Eddie to place it there. When he does, Richie grabs him by the forearms and pulls him back into bed very unceremoniously.

Summoned by the yelps and swearing, Bill and Stan rush into the room as Richie is still wrestling Eddie into settling down.

“What the fuck- oh no, no, I don’t want to see this,” Bill says. Contrary to his words, he doesn’t leave the room, merely holds a hand loosely in front of his eyes and squints.

Stan looks somewhat exasperated, then wanders over and helps himself to Richie’s berries.

“Hey!” Richie protests. He doesn’t move to stop him, though - mostly because Eddie’s now seated comfortably between Richie’s legs and against his chest, pretending to be grumpy even though everyone can see his pleased expression.

“You guys baffle me,” Stan says, taking a sip of orange juice before walking out.

“Bill, you can look,” Eddie says.

“I don’t believe you.”   


Bill shuffles out of the room backwards, tripping over his feet multiple times and ultimately having to open his eyes after walking into the wall on his mission to find the door.

“Enough PDA for you, Eds?”   


“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie says as he nuzzles even closer. Richie grins and kisses the side of his head a few (eight) times.

“Seriously, this is very sweet. Thank you.”   


“You’re welc- oh, don’t eat that with your hands. Richie.  _ Richie _ ! You’re fucking gross.”

Later on, the sun has just set and the Losers are lazily chatting after a delicious meal of Ben’s special fried rice when Mike brings them back down to reality.

“I booked a flight to Florida today,” he says softly.

“Oh! That’s great, Mikey,” Bev says with a smile. “Bill, are you still thinking of joining?”

“Not yet,” Bill says, shiftily glancing between Mike, Bev and the floor. “I need to go home first.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Mike says reassuringly.

“When’s your flight, Mike?” Stan asks. “I booked mine today, too.”

“Day after next around three PM.”   


“Mine’s at four. We can travel together.”

“Woah,” Richie interrupts. “Did I miss something? Is everyone leaving on that day? Ben?”   


“I need to get back to my office for next week, Rich,” Ben says apologetically.

Richie realises with a jolt that it is, in fact, Thursday. The fifth day of their stay at Ben’s. And they did agree to a week. None of this information should come as shock, yet somehow it still does and even more vividly… the idea of leaving  _ hurts _ .

“I’m going with him,” Bev explains. “My friend Kay’s getting my stuff sent over and I’m staying with Ben until I find my own place.”

“What about your job?” Eddie asks.   


“My job was tied to my husband,” Bev says with a harsh laugh. “I’ll have to find something new there, too.”

“There’s a flight I can catch right before yours, Mike,” Bill says.

“Great, we can ride with Stan. Ben, do you mind if I leave my car here? I’m gonna go without it for a while and then-”   


Richie stands up and Mike goes silent. Eddie lets out a frustrated huff, considering he was wedged into the armchair next to Richie. Everyone looks up at him a little expectantly.

“I need some air,” he says bluntly before striding right out of the back door.

He paces the veranda a couple of times before running up the stairs of the platform and flopping onto the sofa. Then he stands up again, not content to be sitting. He feels restless and inexplicably angry, though he knows he’s acting like a child.

It’s not like it had slipped his mind that they would all have to go back to their not-so-normal lives soon. It had been very much on his mind, actually, the idea of facing Steve and his emails and his social media and his fans and- yeah, normal life has been very much at the forefront of his thoughts. It’s more that the idea of that was incomprehensibly shitty to him and the others… well, they seem like they’ve got themselves together. They’re booking flights and making plans and talking about it as if they’re not fucking terrified of being apart which hurts Richie’s feelings more than it should. He knows they love each other, knows they love  _ him _ , but he feels as though maybe it’s a little less all-consuming than the love he has for them. The idea of being across the country from any of them is pretty much breaking his heart.

Plus, there’s Eddie.

Eddie, who he loves more than anything, who made him breakfast in bed, who forced himself into the space between Richie and the arm of his chair and pinched Richie’s cheek when he’d complained about it. Eddie, who he wants to spend every second of every day with. Eddie, who is going back to New York whilst Richie flies to LA to wallow in his loss and sadness and lack of fulfilment in his life aside from his friendships.

What the fuck is he going to do?

Richie’s leaning halfway across the barrier that surrounds the decking, staring into the trees and wondering whether Ben would let him stay here on his own, when Beverly appears like the angel she always is.

“Don’t tell anyone,” she says. “I only have a few left.”

She lights him a cigarette and pops in between his waiting lips.

“I would turn straight for you.”   


Bev huffs out a laugh, taking a long drag of her own cigarette and blowing it upward with her head lolling back. It joins the air imperceptibly; there one moment, gone the next. The only evidence it was ever there is the lingering smell, one which Richie has always found oddly comforting.

“Wanna tell me what’s up?” Bev asks.

“Hmph.”

“You’re sad that we’re leaving?”

“Obviously.”   


“But it’s more than that?”

Richie sighs, then unloads his heart into Bev’s hands. He seems to be doing that a lot, recently. He doesn’t mean to use her as his main emotional support, not when he trusts all of the Losers equally, but Bev has this way of seeking him out and reading his mind. So he tells her how he’s upset and he’s angry and he’s so goddamn fucking  _ scared _ that it makes him feel sick because after It, he’d hoped he’d never have to feel real fear another day in his life. Turns out fear doesn’t only come from monsters or aliens or both, though. Fear comes from knowing you’ve got something you don’t want to lose.

“And I haven’t even asked Eddie if he wants to move, or if he wants me to move, because if the answer is no I think I might just kill myself,” he finishes, bashing his forehead against the wooden railing just once before looking up at Bev. She’s rubbing a comforting hand over his shoulder but glaring at him disapprovingly. “I’m being dramatic. I won’t do that.”

“Then don’t say it,” she says simply.

“Help me out here, Bevvie,” he whines. “Why am I the only one acting like this? Aren’t you scared, too?”

“Terrified,” she says, stubbing out her cigarette. “I woke Ben up at four in the morning to ask him if he liked me more as an adult or as a child.”

Richie lets out a low whistle. “What did he say to that?”

“He asked me if I liked him or Bill more.”

“What the fuck?”

“I know. Then we both apologised, cried for an hour, had sex and fell asleep again.”

“That’s… Jesus, Bev,” Richie breathes out, finishing his own cigarette.

“I know,” she says again. She stares out into the now-dark view. “My point is, we’re all super fucked up.”   


“Reassuring,” Richie says, but he’s smiling.

“Isn’t it, though? Like, sometimes I feel so angry at everything that I want to tear this stupid fucking fancy house down and burn it all up. And then I look over at Stan, or Mike, and see them all glazed over and silent and I think huh. Maybe they’re starting their own little fires, too.”

“That’s very poetic,” Richie says and means it.

“Thank you,” she says with a flick of her hair and flirtatious eyes.

“So, you think Eddie is probably as messed up about this as I am?”   


“Definitely.”   


“Has he said anything to you?”   


“What is this, eighth grade?” Bev scoffs.   


“I don’t trust you now that I know you were hearing both sides of our pathetic yearning!”   


“Liar.”

“Fair.”

“Talk to him tonight, sweetie. The fact neither of you have booked flights says something, surely?”

Richie smiles. “I suppose it does.”

He doesn’t end up talking to Eddie until the next day; the rest of the previous night is spent playing overly competitive games of scrabble until it’s suddenly one AM and everyone’s exhausted. Richie falls asleep with Eddie using his arm as a pillow.

With it being the last full day in Ben’s cabin - he and Bev aren’t able to get a flight until Sunday, so they’ll stay an extra night for some much-needed alone time - everyone’s keen to spend it all together. They cook breakfast as a group, then pack a picnic lunch and bundle into two cars to head to a nearby national park.

It’s unbelievably beautiful there; the day is mild and cloudless and Richie’s not always one to admire nature, but holy fuck have trees always been this green? There’s a few deciduous trees that speckle the canopy with the beginnings of turning brown, but it only makes for a landscape that’s all the more beautiful. They hike along a fairly easy path, but Richie’s still huffing for breath by the end of it, when they reach an area of lush grass that’s scattered with picnic tables.

They feast on sandwiches and other snacks, talking and laughing animatedly. Richie can tell that there’s a hint of sadness behind their increased bravado, that they’re making up for the incoming lost time, but he doesn’t mind. In fact, it comforts him. The fact they can come together in their sadness and use it as motivation to have  _ more _ fun? It reassures him more than ever that they’re meant to be together.

On the way back, he helps Eddie over a particularly rocky patch of ground, then keeps hold of his hand all the way back to the car park. Eddie says nothing, only beams and then tries to hide it when Richie nudges into him playfully. 

When they get back to the cabin, everyone’s wanting to shower and pack before they chill out, so there’s a couple of vaguely stressful hours. While Eddie’s packing, Richie sits on the edge of their bed staring at his mess of a suitcase before Eddie offers to help. As he watches him refold all of his clothes fondly, Richie feels brave enough to bring it up.

“So, we still need to find flights, huh?”   


“What? I booked mine this morning.”

“Oh.”   


“You haven’t booked a flight?” Eddie yelps, several t-shirts in each hand.

“Uh, no, I-”

“Jesus, here,” he groans, shoving the clothes into Richie’s lap. “You finish this whilst I find you one.”   


A little dazed and confused, Richie finishes off packing in silence, only speaking when Eddie asks him if he minds an economy flight. His ‘no’ sounds small to his own ears.

“When’s your flight?” Richie asks, folding the same pair of socks for the third time.

“Midday. I’ve booked yours for eleven-thirty.”   


“What about your car?” Richie sounds desperate, pleading, like he’s looking for any minuscule reason that Eddie might not be able to leave just yet.

“There’s a branch of the rental company about an hour out. I’ll drop it off then get a cab to the airport,” Eddie says, throwing his phone backwards onto the bed and fixing Richie with a Serious Look. “Why do you sound weird?”

“I don’t,” Richie says, turning his back to pelt socks into his suitcase.

“You do.”   


“Do not.”   


“Are you upset?”   


“No.”   


“You are.”

“Jesus Christ, Eds. Yeah I fucking am! Alright! Of course I am. Aren’t you? We’re leaving  _ tomorrow  _ and we got together like  _ two days _ ago and I just wanted a bit more time to sit with this before I got thrown headfirst into the deep end of a pool of actual fucking shit.”

Eddie is quiet for a little while, watching Richie’s heaving chest and shaking hands with a sympathetic look that Richie hates. He doesn’t want sympathy. He doesn’t deserve it. Doesn’t deserve Eddie, either, especially after shouting at him less than a week into their relationship. Maybe that’s the crux of this - why he won’t ask Eddie what’s next for them - it all comes down to Richie being terrified that his luck has run out and Eddie will laugh in his face and say something along the lines of ‘ _ what, you thought this would work long-term _ ?  _ You thought I’d let you move in with me, or me with you? Nice one, Trashmouth, you fuckin’ loser’. _

“I hate New York,” Eddie says.

“What?”   


“I thought it was fine because it worked- because it’s fast paced and kind of brutal and it’s loud enough that I don’t have to think about too much. But now that I’ve been away for… the longest time in years, actually. I don’t know. I think I hate it.”

“Okay?” Richie says, confused and embarrassed by his outburst.

“Do you like LA?”

Richie thinks on that for a moment. He does, really, at its core. LA is pretentious and about fifteen years too young for him, but it’s also lively and warm and pretty enough if you know where to look. He lives away from the centre, which is peaceful, but he’s close enough to everyone he knows in the city. Not that that’s many people, but it works for him. He likes walking to the cafe near his house on a Saturday and getting the smoothie of the day and chatting to the waitress with a shaved head and about ten (visible) piercings.

But if Eddie’s going where he hopes he is with this, Richie would give up LA in a heartbeat if he thought one inch of it wasn’t good enough for the bottom of Eddie’s shoe.

“I do.”   


“Do you think I would?”

Richie lets out a breath. “I think so. It’s got fancy salad bars.”

“Is that what you think I’m interested in?” Eddie laughs.

“Acai bowls? Celebrity sightings? Less rats than New York?”

“Appealing.”

“Eds, I’m sorry, I-”   


“No, it’s okay. I shouldn’t have booked my flight without telling you. We gotta communicate this shit. Like, until we’re bored of each other’s voices.”

“Impossible,” Richie says, shuffling forward to stand between Eddie’s legs where he still perches on the edge of the bed. Eddie lets his head fall forward onto Richie’s midsection and places his hands gently onto his hips. Incredibly, Richie manages to hold back the obvious joke about the suggestive positioning and instead runs his hands along Eddie’s shoulders until he’s cupping the back of his neck.

“I have to go home, Rich. I’ve got shit to do.”   


“I know, I know.”   


“But…”   


“After that?”   


“We can talk about it?”   


“Yeah?”   


“Yeah.”   


“Yeah!”   


“Hell yeah!” Eddie shouts, surprising Richie into raucous laughter until he’s pushing Eddie backwards onto the bed and covering his whole body like a blanket.

The evening melts into familiar laughter that echoes around Ben’s stupid fucking big living room. They don’t talk about the fact they’re leaving, not really, because what is there to say? It sucks and it’s sad but it’s not goodbye, not really. Stan’s already mentioned Thanksgiving  _ and _ Christmas, which makes Bill pout over the fact he’s meant to be in London until at least February. Richie doesn’t say anything aloud at that but he shares a look with Mike that suggests they’re thinking the same thing: if Bill’s not back in LA before Christmas, it’d be a surprise. And he hopes it works out for him, he really does, but the thought of the seven of them (plus Patty) being together for the holidays really does make Richie’s Grinch heart grow three sizes.

They play games and they drink and eat more than they have in the entire week combined and it’s just about perfect. Even more so when Eddie emerges into their bedroom at the respectable time of eleven PM, hair wet from his third shower of the day, in an oversized t-shirt that he one hundred percent stole when he was helping Richie pack.

In his announcer voice, he says “And here’s Eddie Spaghetti Kaspbrak, emerging from his shower hat-trick, looking like the man of my goddamn fucking dreams.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and pointedly ignores Richie’s compliment, even though he’s as read as a damn tomato.

“I wanted to avoid showering tomorrow morning when the bathroom’s full to the fucking brim with everyone panic-washing!”

“Eds, baby, we all know you’re also going to shower tomorrow,” Richie says. He pulls back the covers on Eddie’s side and waits patiently for him to join.

“Maybe I just wanted to smell nice for you,” Eddie says grumpily.

“Aw, honey,” Richie coos. “You could come to bed straight from the sewers and I’d still want you.”

Eddie flops into bed and immediately rolls onto his side and right up into Richie’s space which is. Overwhelming. To say the least. Especially when Eddie’s all soft and clean and infused with lavender extract or whatever the fuck he uses in his many,  _ many _ shower products.

“You want me?” Eddie says with an exaggeratedly seductive voice which is unfair in so many ways.

“Baby, I want you all the damn time,” Richie says in the same tone. He expects it to sound funny and stupid - which it  _ does _ to him - but it makes Eddie blush even more and look away nervously. “Hey, I’m just fucking about-”   


“Are you fucking about when you call me baby?”

“Huh?”   


“Like, is that a nickname that’s meant to annoy me or do you mean it?”

Eddie’s pretending to rearrange his pillows, cheeks pink and eyebrows angry as ever, and it’s just about the sweetest thing Richie thinks he’s ever seen.

“I mean it,” he says, smiling when Eddie looks at him. He takes his chin in his hand. “I always meant it.”

And then he kisses him and his mind goes pretty much blank. Except, well, he can’t help but throw a silent party in his brain to celebrate his own ability to actually have some game. He’s allowed that, right? After years and years of only approaching guys in seedy bars and hiding his face as they lead him back to their apartments for twenty minutes before kicking him out into the street? He likes to think so.

Half an hour later, Richie tries to roll Eddie off of him and back onto the bed, needing more than a second to breathe. Eddie makes a noise of protest and locks his knees into place where they rest either side of his hips.

“Eds, I need- you’re killing me here. I need a minute or…”   


“Or what?”   


“You said you weren’t ready,” Richie gasps as Eddie kisses down his throat.

“I wasn’t.”   


“Past tense?”   


“Past tense.”   


“You’re sure?”

“Richie,” Eddie sighs. He sits up in Richie’s lap and rests both hands on his chest, smiling down at him softly. “I love you, and I love listening to you, but right now I think you should stop talking.”

“Oh yeah?” Richie grins. “Make me.”

And he does.

The next morning is a nightmare. Or, well, a mildly bad dream - Richie doesn’t take the word ‘nightmare’ as lightly as he once used to.

Eddie wakes up and immediately switches into neurotic little shit mode, ordering Richie around and checking their room seven times before he’s satisfied they haven’t forgotten anything. The others watch sympathetically from the sofas as Richie places their bags by the door and counts them several times until Eddie is satisfied. Then he sits on top of a suitcase and checks their flight information, reciting it aloud until Richie begs him to calm down. Which Eddie does, for approximately two seconds, looking up at the other Losers with an apologetic smile. Then he suddenly starts to cry.

“Hey. Hey, no,” Richie says, a little lost. He’s the cryer, not  _ Eddie _ .

“I hate flying,” Eddie complains. He fists his knuckles into his eyes to try and stop himself. “I fucking hate it.”   


“I know,” Richie says, patting Eddie’s head gently.

The others gravitate towards them.

“It’ll be fine, Eddie,” Mike says. He grasps Eddie’s shoulders from behind. “It’s not far.”   


“You’ve got everything you need,” Ben reassures him. “You can pass out as soon as you’re on the plane.”

“And call us as soon as you land!” Bev continues. She’s knelt on the floor beside Eddie, resting her arms on his leg and her chin in her hands.

Then Richie starts crying, too, and it’s all a fucking mess. And there’s the surface level reasons, of course, but everyone knows what’s really going on. They’re leaving. It fucking sucks. It is what it is.

The goodbyes are drawn out as long as possible, everyone getting at least two hugs each and many promises to visit and call and write and whatever the fuck long-distance platonic soulmates are meant to do.

All too soon they’re settled in Eddie’s rental car with Losers on either side of them, the windows open and their hands hanging out for one final grasp at each other. As per usual, Mike says it best, because he’s the best of them all, really.

“I love you guys, you know. I love you so much.”

The journey to the rental office is shorter than Eddie had said it would be, which is somewhat upsetting. Richie tries to make it as fun of a road trip as possible, playing shitty songs that goad Eddie into a constant stream of complaints and encouraging him every time he gets mildly incensed at a bad driver. But it’s over all too soon and they’re stood on the sidewalk waiting on their Uber, Richie bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet like a little kid until Eddie puts an arm around his waist to pull him back down to earth.

The airport is hell; overcrowded and too warm and loud. They get through security and search for thirty minutes for a spot to sit and wait for Richie’s flight to get called to board, getting spotted by fans twice along the way. He declines their requests for pictures but signs a phone case and assures them, no, he’s not having a mental breakdown and yes, he’ll be back soon. Eddie makes fun of him endlessly.

In the end, they sit on the floor (Eddie on top of Richie’s jacket) in a corner that’s somewhat hidden behind a few benches, trying to grab onto the last minutes they have.

Richie’s been rambling for a while and Eddie’s been suspiciously quiet.

“It’ll be fine, y’know, the internet is great at my place so Skype calls or whatever will be no problemo. I know you’ll be busy for a while and your hotel might charge for wifi but I’ll pay, it’s fine. God, I hope the bellhops are all ugly. If you see some hot little twenty-something in a sexy uniform and you decide you want a good old post-divorce hoe phase, let me know sooner rather than later, okay?”   


“Shut the fuck up.”   


“Sorry.”   


“Richard.”   


“Edward.”   


Eddie turns his upper body to face him and Richie does the same. They’re side by side, propped up against the wall, closer than any two people really need to be. Eddie slides his hand into Richie’s, fingers intertwined.

“I think you’re the love of my fucking life,” Eddie says like it's simple. Which it is, really.   


Richie almost chokes.

“I think you’re mine, too.”

“They just called out your flight.”   


“Fuck.”   


“Don’t say goodbye, okay?” Eddie says. His voice shakes and he’s holding on to Richie’s hand so tight it hurts. “Don’t say anything else. Just go. It’ll be romantic as shit.”   


Richie laughs, but he ignores him and says ‘I love you’ at least twenty more times - into Eddie’s hair, against his mouth, silently as he presses his face into his neck and lets himself hide a couple of tears there for safe keeping.

“Text me when you land,” Eddie calls as he walks away backwards.

“Nope, I’m calling you.”   


“I might not answer!”   


“Then I’ll leave a message and call you again!”   


They’re shouting across the airport, practically, drawing a lot of disapproving looks in their direction. Richie does not give a single fuck. He cups his hands over his mouth and yells at the top of his voice.   


“See you on the flip side, Eddie Spaghetti!”

“FUCK YOU!”


	7. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An overview of the months that follow the Losers' return from Derry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll say a bit more at the end, but thanks so much if you've read this til the end (now or in the future!!) it means so much. i don't know if i'm happy with this epilogue but i've been working on it for far too long so here, enjoy :-)
> 
> warnings: drinking, swearing, jokes/implications of a mildly sexual nature, descriptions of panic attacks, attraction to the grinch. you'll see

“So then I’m like, what the fuck, Dave! I’ve worked here for over a _decade_ , cut me a little slack. I’m talking about a  _ transfer  _ that I  _ know _ is available otherwise I wouldn’t fucking ask. I’d just quit and find something else. He’s acting like I’m asking to be the CEO of the company or something, Rich, I swear to God!”

“Mhm. Right.”

“And then he brings up my ‘unexpected absence’ which he always does when he wants to prove a point. As if that wasn’t the first fucking holiday I’ve had in years. I’ve never even called in sick. I don’t know what point he thinks he’s fucking proving.”

“Exactly.”

“So Sheryl stands up for me, bless her, and - guess what - he has a go at her, too! Says that we can’t ignore company policy in favour of helping out our friends, whatever the fuck that means. I told him- I fucking  _ told _ him that I’d checked company policy and that transfers are  _ supposed  _ to be prioritised and- FUCK! ASSHOLE!”

“Someone cut you up?”

“No, they were going too fast.”   


“And you’re not?”   


“Anyway, he says he’s going to look into it but let's be real, he fucking isn't. I’m going to be a nightmare and remind him every single day because I will actually lose my shit if he pretends to forget. And if it doesn’t get sorted before next year I’m just handing in my notice. On New Year’s Day. He can suck my dick.”

“God, I hope not.”

Finally, Eddie laughs and Richie imagines the way his shoulders droop a little, his hands dropping from their usual ten and two position. Richie himself is trying to relax, laid back on his sofa with the TV on mute and an unopened beer bottle in his hand; he’d just got off of a Skype meeting with the producers of the new animated series that he’s lending his voice talent to, when Eddie had called and started rambling before he could even say so much as ‘hi’.

Not that he minds one bit.

It’s been over a month since he’s seen Eddie and he misses him so much it hurts. They didn’t even get much time together, just a hurried mid-October visit when Richie had an event to attend in New York. He’s been attending a lot of events, recently. Turns out an on-stage breakdown followed by a public coming out can turn you from a trashy C-list comedian into a sought-after celeb. He’s not complaining. The opportunities that come alongside the countless questions are worth it.

Except he is  _ kind of _ complaining (internally) because Eddie’s not here to share it with him and he couldn’t even make the Losers’ Thanksgiving feast in Atlanta which was just about the cruelest thing ever. He’d Facetimed them when he got a chance and felt mollified by the sight of their faces all together - well, mostly together. Only Eddie, Beverly and Ben had managed to join the Uris-Blum household. Bill was in London trying to find a divorce lawyer (yikes) and Mike was in  _ Hawaii _ , the fucker.

“You should just quit, Eds,” Richie says for the thousandth time. “You don’t like it enough for it to be worth the hassle.”   


“I know,” Eddie sighs. “But the thought of having to apply and all that shit makes me feel sick. Job interviews are for people in their twenties.”   


“That makes no sense.”   


“I know.”   


He sounds tired. It makes Richie ache. He can’t help but feel a smidgen of guilt that he’s contributing to Eddie’s dilemma by being the one who’s invited him to move to LA, rather than vice-versa. They’d talked it out though, in many long and late conversations, and decided that it just made more sense. Eddie didn’t like New York. Richie did like LA. Eddie could easily find work outside of New York. Richie’s main line of work occurs in LA. They went round like this in circles for a couple of weeks until Eddie had finally said ‘fuck it, let me talk to my boss’.

Not to mention that Eddie didn’t even have a place of his own in New York. He’d stayed in a hotel for about a month before renting a place from a friend of a colleague.

“I’m aware that I sound like a broken record,” Richie continues. “But you  _ could _ take some proper time off. You’ve got savings. I’m famous and shit. We can manage.”   


Eddie scoffs. “I’ve never had time off work.”

“Exactly, babe. You deserve a break.”

“Do I?” Eddie mutters distractedly, but it makes Richie’s fist clench nonetheless.

“Of course you fuckin’ do.”   


“So… what. You think I should just…”

“Quit! Do a Chandler! Don’t go back after Christmas. You were planning on bringing most of your shit on the twentieth, anyway, right? Bring it all.”   


“Come for good?”   


“Come for good.”   


A heavy silence follows. Richie doesn’t know why he’s so nervous, but he is, so he finally cracks open his beer and takes a long swig. They’d already agreed that Eddie would move in after the New Year but with all this transfer business taking its sweet time, it hasn’t felt real just yet. But this… the idea of Eddie being there, and there to stay, in a matter of weeks? It’s enough to make Richie’s heart pound.

“You didn’t even make a disgusting innuendo about ‘come for good’,” Eddie says eventually.

“That’s how you know I’m serious, Eddie my love.”

“Okay.”   


“Fuck, really?”   


“What?! Are you chickening out?”   


“No, no, no. No. Just. Fuck, I’m excited. Oh my God, I need to clean.”   


Eddie laughs and the line is clearer, so Richie assumes he’s arrived back at the apartment and is sat in the parking lot with his engine off.

“It’s ages away!”   


Richie grimaces. “You underestimate how deeply I must clean.”

“Disgusting.”   


“You love it.”

“Not really,” Eddie says bluntly. “Richie…”   


“Yeah?”   


“Aren’t you nervous?”

“Literally all the time.”

Eddie ignores his attempt to distract him with self-deprecation, as he often does. Richie’s going to have to change his tactic when they live together.  _ When they live together _ .

“We’ve spent, like, two weeks together.  _ Actually _ together.”   


“And?”   


“What if we drive each other insane? Bev and Ben aren’t even living together! She’s still got her own place.”   


“Eds, you know she spends ninety-nine percent of her time over at his.”   


“Okay, but-”   


“Do you think I’ll annoy you?” Richie asks, hoping that this is the right method towards derailing Eddie’s panic and that he doesn't get an answer he won't like.

“No!" (Phew.) "Of course not, it’s just…”   


“What?”   


“I’m not easy to live with, okay? I clean every day, shower at least twice, can’t go more than ten minutes without sanitiser, check sell-by dates every other second. I- I’m a nightmare, Rich.”

Richie takes a deep breath. “I literally do not care.”   


“Richie.”   


“I mean it! You think I don’t know this about you? Dude, I listened to you explain the purpose of every single cleaning product in your bathroom cupboard when we were ten years old. If I thought you were a freakzoid, I’d have gone running for the hills then. Yet here we are, old and wrinkly, and I love you.”

Eddie laughs but it sounds a little shaky.

“Who’re you calling wrinkly?” he says. Richie can hear him gathering his stuff and getting out of the car.

“You’ve got those little forehead creases. Adorable.”   


“Fuck you.”

“You can in, like, three weeks.”

A pause. Richie envisions Eddie walking up the stairwell of his apartment block, suit jacket slung over his arm and briefcase in his hand. His headphones plugged into his phone so that he doesn’t have to take it out of his pocket. His hair gelled back but falling loose where he’s been running his hands through it all day. His tie undone, top of his shirt open, a tired smile on his face.

Three weeks.

“Hey, the others arrive the day after me, right?”   


“Yeah, Eds. Why?”

“Good. I get you to myself for a whole twenty-four hours.”   


“Oh.”   


“Yeah, oh. Prepare yourself, Tozier.”

“You want me dolphin-smooth, baby? A spray tan? Hair dyed to hide the greys?”   


“Shut the fuck up. I want you just as you are.”

Richie speaks to at least three Losers per day which is. It’s a lot. And also not enough at the same time.

Sometimes he calls, sometimes they call, sometimes it’s Facetime, sometimes it’s a group Skype. However it is and whoever it is, it’s the best part of his day.

On this day, a week after his conversation with Eddie, it’s just Ben. And Richie loves Ben, adores him in his bones, but this is actually the first time they’ve talked one on one in… forever, really. Maybe since the day they met, when Richie stood guard over Ben’s sorry self and tried to crack jokes to lighten the mood as they waited for the others to steal supplies. Since then, he’s always been attached to Beverly both literally and also in Richie’s mind, which makes him feel like a really shitty friend.

So he calls him.

“Hey, Rich.”   


“Benny boy! How’s it hanging?”   


Ben laughs, his usual breathy chuckle. “I’m about to walk the pup, actually.”

“Nice one. You with Bev or could you use my company?”

“Nah, she’s viewing a studio. Let me- wait, I’ll get Baby’s collar on and grab my headphones and call you back.”

Richie laughs, as he always does, at the fact Ben’s giant German Shepherd is called  _ Baby _ . He waits for the call back, which comes within minutes, and they chat happily for a while about dogs and walks and life and work whilst Ben walks to a nearby park.

“So, what do you need us to bring for Christmas?”

“Huh?”   


“Like, food and drinks wise. Or decorations. Sleeping gear? Sleeping bags? I’ve got loads of sleeping bags, I can bring them all.”   


“Benjamin.”   


“...Yes?” Ben sounds suspicious, which just makes Richie all the more amused.

“Bring nothing but your fine selves. God, man, you fed us all for a week straight! I can handle Christmas.”

“I know, but-”

“But nothing. Your presence is the present, Haystack.”

“Okay,” Ben concedes. A pause. “I hate that nickname.”   


“Aww. Sorry, bud.”   


“No, seriously. It makes me feel like shit.”

Ben’s snappy tone catches Richie off guard. He’s more than used to people getting pissed off with him and his shitty jokes but Ben’s never been one for anger. He’s one for shy glances away and blushing beet-red right up to his ears.

Maybe he’s been letting Richie get away with too much for too long.

“I’m sorry, Ben,” he says seriously. He means it. “Man… I hope you know I. Fuck. The ol’ beep-beep thing? I don’t take it lightly. I take it too far, you tell me, alright? I hate the idea of making you feel shitty.”

“Thanks, Richie. Sorry, I’m… running on a short fuse these days, I suppose.”

“Dude, with all that we’ve been through, I’d be more surprised if you were acting normally.”   


“We’ve never been normal.”   


“Got that one right.”

“So,” Ben says with the distinct air of someone who wants to change the subject. “How’re things with Eddie?”   


“Oh, Jesus, I think he’s actually trying to kill me.”

And Richie  _ would _ feel bad about the ten minute tangent he goes off on - about how Eddie sends him pictures of plants he wants to buy once he’s in LA, and asks him about every local farmer’s market, and whether he should bring any of his kitchen-ware, and has the weather app set up to track what it’s like for Richie and so texts him things like ‘ _ don’t forget SPF _ !’, and how all of this makes Richie go actually batshit insane because he’s so fucking obsessed with him - he really would feel bad, except Ben then does the exact same thing regarding Bev, so. Fair’s fair.

The first few weeks of December are just about the longest of Richie’s life. He’s busy, sure, writing and recording and meeting people and planning shit - but he’s also got a constant countdown in his head of X days until Eddie arrives and X days plus one until he gets to see the rest of the Losers, too. It’s torture. He’s so excited he might puke. Although, that could be the constant thrumming anxiety of hosting his seven favourite people on the planet for his favourite holiday. He wants it to be perfect.

So, there’s a lot going on in December. And it drags. Yet, somehow, it’s suddenly five days until Christmas and time to pick Eddie up from the airport.

Richie’s carefully mastered the art of wearing something that looks casually thrown together to the naked eye, but actually took him half an hour and a lot of thought to choose. Thus, he’s wearing his new jeans that cost a ridiculous amount of money - Eddie may have briefly mentioned he liked the brand one time, Richie may have pretended not to hear him - that are not too tight for a man who’s officially in his forties but tight enough that he knows they’re flattering. Because apparently that’s something he thinks about now. He’s wearing one of his less tasteful t-shirts featuring Kevin McCallister’s face, mouth wide open and baubles falling out of it. Over the top, a festive-coloured plaid shirt that is one of the few that have been honoured by a compliment from Eddie. And his leather jacket, purely because he knows it’ll piss Eddie off and Richie really wants to see him do his angry hand chop thing in person. It’s been too long. 

He’s stood outside arrivals when the man himself comes barrelling towards him at a frankly alarming speed. He collides with Richie’s midsection with a soft “oof.”

“That was the worst fucking flight of my life, oh my God. The woman next to me paid for WiFi and was playing _cocktail-making_ _tutorials_ out loud. Out loud! On the fucking plane! If I wanted to know how to make a virgin mojito I’d use a recipe book like a normal person. Also, there was a baby behind me crying and obviously that’s not the baby’s fault but _Jesus Christ_ was it loud. And the mum kept going ‘ooh, Maude, it’s okay’ and I was thinking, fucking hell, she’s probably crying because you named her _Maude_.”

Eddie steps back from Richie, but not completely, leaving his hands on his waist and Richie’s arms on his shoulders. They break into matching grins in unison.

“Hi,” Richie says, far too soft.

“Hi. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. That was the most fun I’ve had in weeks.”

“That’s sad.”   


“Extremely.”

Eddie pulls Richie down by the neck into a short but firm kiss. Richie hates himself for it, but he can’t help but flinch a little. He forgets sometimes that he’s in LA, not Derry, and that he’s out and proud, not sneaking glances at pretty boys in bars or arcades or quarries.

If Eddie notices his momentary discomfort, he doesn’t mention it.

“How are you? How was the traffic here?”   


“Fine and fine, it’ll be better on the way back. Are you hungry?”   


“Nah,” Eddie says, trying to scoop up his hand luggage and smiling gently when Richie beats him to it. “I ate four bags of mini pretzels on the plane.”

“ _ Four _ ? Who are you and what have you done with Eddie Kaspbrak?”

“Flight anxiety makes me hungry.”

“You are a feral little goblin,” Richie says. He flings an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and directs him towards baggage claim. “And I missed you.”

Richie glances down subtly enough that Eddie doesn’t try and hide his pleased expression.

“Missed you too, dipshit.”

The drive home is total chaos. As expected, Eddie is the worst passenger Richie’s ever had; he shouts at people who are doing basically nothing wrong, he tells Richie which (wrong) lane to get in, he asks him every two minutes how far away they are. It’s too much fun.

They also talk like normal people, obviously, about what’s new and Christmas and their friends and where Eddie’s going to put his  _ air purifier _ .

All too soon they’re out of the car and into the parking lot of Richie’s apartment complex, which Eddie looks up at with significant approval. Richie knows it’s nice, with its bright white exterior and lobby security, but he was still nervous Eddie might not like it. Luckily, he turns to Richie with raised eyebrows and a smug smile.   


“So you’re like,  _ rich _ rich.”

“That's my name."

"Dude."

Richie sighs. "If I was  _ rich _ rich I’d have my own house.”

“I feel like that’s more of a choice than a necessity.”   


“...Maybe.”   


“Come on then,” Eddie says, heaving a bag out of the trunk. “Help me with my shit.”

Eddie takes approximately three steps into Richie’s apartment and freezes. He’d been expecting it, honestly, but Richie doesn’t know if he’s prepared for the oncoming shitstorm.

“Cats,” Eddie says.

“Yes.”

“Yours?”

“Yes.”

“ _ Three of them?” _

Richie grimaces. “Four, actually. I don’t know where Loki is.”

“If you tell me they’re all named after superheroes I will end my existence and our relationship. In that order.”

Richie blinks several times.

“One: I’m not sure that’s physically possible. Two: Loki isn’t a superhero. Three:  _ my _ Loki is actually named after Jake Gyllenhaal’s best character.”

“Who’s Jake Gillyhole?”

“You- you know who  _ Loki _ is but not  _ Jake Gyllenhaal _ ?”

“You’re missing the point,” Eddie says, taking one tiny step further into the apartment. The cats look sleepily curious but don’t bother to move from their perches that sit under the window of Richie’s living room.

“I am?”

“ _ Cats _ . Secret cats! Four of them!”

“Okay, I know, but-“

“I’m allergic!”

Richie fixes Eddie with a look that makes him immediately wither. He’s firmly inside the apartment, now, shrugging off his backpack and jacket. Richie closes the door behind them and rushes forward to put Eddie’s jacket on the coat stand. No, he’s not desperate to draw attention to the fact he’s an adult with a coat stand. He’s just feeling chivalrous.

“I could be allergic,” Eddie says.

“But you’re probably not.”

“Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you’d be all ‘Richard, I’m allergic!’ which you’re obviously fucking not because as far as we can tell you’re not allergic to anything you’ve ever thought you were allergic to.”

Eddie pauses and looks at Richie with an unimpressed scowl. “Was that meant to be an impression of me?”

“Maybe,” Richie grins. “Is it skit-worthy?”

“Absolutely fucking not. Never do it again, actually, thanks.”

“Only if you admit you’re not allergic to cats.”

There’s a long moment where Eddie looks like he might actually punch Richie in the face or (worse, arguably) walk right back out the door. Instead, he gets a determined little crease to his brow and nods.

“Let’s find out.”

Eddie marches forward and sends all but one cat running away in search of refuge.

He turns and stares at Richie looking positively distraught. It’s not funny. No. Not one bit.

“They hate me!”

“You spooked them,” Richie coos. He shuffles forward and kisses Eddie’s forehead a little clumsily. He’s still getting used to re-establishing that casual affection. Not that they had much time to establish it in the first place before they dived head-first into long distance.  He’s only slightly bitter.

“Who’s this?” Eddie asks, moving forward much more timidly. 

The little tabby cat raises her head, looking ever so slightly pissed to be disturbed from her sunbathing. She’s the smallest, roundest and bossiest of the lot.

“This is Olive,” Richie explains. He scratches her under the chin. “She’s the queen bee. Loki’s the fluffy all-black one. Tom’s the black one with the white  _ left  _ paw, Jerry’s the white  _ right _ paw.”

“You have three black cats? How am I supposed to recognise them?”

“You’ll get there. Black ones don’t get adopted as often, so.”

“They’re all adopted?” Eddie asks - Richie nods - Eddie pouts. “That’s sweet.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re a big softy.”

“Never tried to claim otherwise, Eds.” 

Eddie looks up at Richie with an expression that’s- well, it’s relaxed, open, sincere and  _ happy _ and it’s enough to make Richie nervous all over again.

“Do you want to hold Olive?”

Eddie glances down at her as she licks her paws nonchalantly. He smiles a little.

“Maybe later. I still think you should’ve told me.”

A pang of guilt hits Richie. “Maybe… Sorry. Was that shitty of me?”

Eddie shakes his head and shrugs at the same time, which isn’t much of an answer.

“I know you didn’t want to freak me out but they’re  _ cats _ , Richie, not baby dinosaurs.”

“Oh, that would be so cool.”

“It kind of would.”

Richie takes a deep breath and Eddie looks up at him, smiling and absentmindedly stroking Olive’s ears. Richie can’t help it; he leans down and presses a soft kiss onto Eddie’s still-smiling mouth. When he pulls back, Eddie’s eyes are hazy and his cheeks are pink as if he’s been caught completely off-guard. Richie knows how he feels.

“Okay. Grand tour?”

“Yeah. Wait- Richie if you do your tour guide voice I swear- oh, for fuck’s sake.”   


Two hours later they’re lying in Richie’s (their) bed when Eddie suddenly turns and looms over Richie with a furious look on his face.

“You don’t have a Christmas tree.”

Richie raises his eyebrows.   


“You have told me  _ seven _ times in the last two weeks that you’re allergic to pine needles.”

“Didn’t stop you with the fucking cats,” Eddie grumbles. “Get a fake one!”   


“That’s very bad for the environment, Eds.”   


“Oh and chopping down millions of live trees once a year isn’t?”

“Hmm,” Richie says, stretching his arms behind his head and pretending to contemplate this. He doesn’t miss the way Eddie’s eyes follow his bare arms. He’s been trying to let himself notice things like that recently - to remind himself that this man loves him and wants every bit of him. It’s been tough to do over a screen but he’s tried nonetheless, making a mental note of every time Eddie’s breath hitches when he tells him he loves him, or he answers a video call two rings in with a beaming smile and a story to tell.

“Rich,” Eddie says very seriously. “You do realise Benverly will murder you if you have no decorations.”

“Wait - one moment - did you just say  _ Benverly _ ?”

“Fuck!”   


“ _ Benverly _ ?!”

Eddie flops face first into the pillow and groans. His following words are muffled and long-suffering.

“Bev keeps saying it as a joke and it’s fucking stuck in my head.”   


“What does that make us? Ed...chie? Richward?”

Another groan and Eddie turns fully away from Richie.

“She calls us Reddie.”   


Richie laughs until he cries.

And then he drags Eddie out of bed, demands he gets dressed, and drives to the nearest Target.

“What about this one?”   


Richie swivels around on his hills and finds Eddie pointing at the most hideous faux tree he has ever seen in his life. It’s white with green tips on the fake pines and covered with a sheen of multicoloured glitter. Richie’s not against glitter, oh no, he’s all for it, but this shit is the tackiest thing in the store.

Essentially, it turns out that Eddie has no taste. This thrills Richie.

“You have the decorative style of a three year old mixed with a middle-aged soccer mom,” he tells him gleefully.

Eddie throws his hands up. “I don’t fucking know! I’ve never had to think about it!”

“Aww, mommy always brought the Christmas spirit?”

“I meant with Myra.”

“Oh.”   


Eddie throws a quick glare at Richie and then shuffles off into the next aisle of trees.

It’s something they don’t talk about, really - their deeper issues. They both know the other has them, of course, but it doesn’t come up as regularly as Richie might’ve expected. He knows Eddie’s looking into finding a new therapist, so they talk about  _ that  _ but it’s more on a practical level than anything. 

Richie doesn’t think he  _ wants _ to talk about this stuff with Eddie, is the thing. Or with any of the Losers. He knows that they understand on a deeper level than anyone else ever could and that’s that. He’d tell them anything and everything (and he does - coming to one or several of them with surface-level problems on a daily basis) but he thinks they all silently agree that there’s no use re-hashing every traumatic detail of their lives too often. But, Jesus, they don’t even talk about the fact Richie killed a guy, which. Yeah. It’s on his mind a lot, funnily enough.

Suddenly, he’s overcome with the urge to ring Mike and ask the question he’s been avoiding since Derry.

“Hey, Rich,” Mike says after four rings.

“Mike. You know- you know that thing. The thing we left in the library? Where did you put it? In the end?”

“Richie, what-”

“Mike. Please.”

“Aren’t you with Eddie? Is everything okay?”

Richie rotates on the spot but he can’t see Eddie amongst the trees. If he’s over towards the back left, where the trees are even taller than Richie, he’s definitely not going to spot him.

“He’s shopping. I’ve lost him. I’m. I need to know,” Richie says, very aware of his heavy breathing.

There’s a long pause on Mike’s end. Then: “We left it at the house.”

“The- house. Oh. The bad house?”   


“The bad house.”

“Okay.”

“Richie, what’s going on? Are you alright?”   


“Mike,” Richie croaks out. “I think I’m having a panic attack in the Christmas section of Target.”

“Okay. That’s okay,” Mike says calmly. The output sound shifts slightly and Richie thinks he’s being put on speaker. “I’m letting Eddie know he needs to come find you. Meanwhile, just focus on something nearby, okay? Ground yourself, if you can.”

His head hurts. His chest feels concave. His eyesight is blurry, almost as bad as it is when he takes off his glasses. The trees around him, the baubles and tinsel and glitter and shit, it all blurs into one big mass of green, red, silver, gold and white-

“Tacky Christmas tree,” Richie says.

“Oh?” Mike says, voice steady but somewhat forced. “What’s it like?”   


“Fucking horrible.”   


“Are you only just getting a Christmas tree, Rich?”

Richie knows what he’s doing. He’s trying to distract him until he calms down, or until Eddie arrives. They used to do it as kids all the time when Eddie was having an “asthma attack”. Make him look at, and talk about, something mundane until the panic seeped out of him naturally.

“Eddie said. I have to.”

“Well, I think so too. You’re no Grinch, Richie.”

“Grinchie.”   


Mike laughs. “Sure. Wanna watch that tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”   


“Yeah, my flight gets in around five, remember?”   


“Oh. Oh, yeah. Am I picking you up?”

“Nah,” Mike says. “I’m going to wait for the others and get a cab with them.”   


“Others.”   


“All of them, yeah. Bill, Bev, Ben, Stan, Patty.”

“Losers,” Richie mumbles. Mike laughs gently.

He can see his feet as they shuffle back and forth under him. He’s aware of noises, again; laughter and talking and some new Christmas song by a pop-star Richie doesn’t know the name of.

“Eddie,” Richie says.

“Well, yeah, he’s already there, man!”

“No. I see him.”   


“Oh, good,” Mike breathes out, clearly relieved. “Does he see you?”   


“I’m waving. Oh- yep, he’s running. That man is  _ running _ .”

Mike laughs again, soft and genuine. “Of course he is. You gonna be okay now, Rich?”   


“Yeah. God, I’m sorry, Mikey. I’m fine.”   


“Don’t be sorry. You don’t have to be fine.”   


“Okay.”   


“I love you.”   


“You too.”

They hang up at the same moment Eddie reaches Richie and skids to a halt in front of him. He looks insane, honestly, red and sweaty under his coat and scarf (in  _ LA _ ) and like he might just spontaneously combust.   


“Are you okay?” he breathes out.   


“I think so.”   


“That’s not a yes.”

“I feel better.”   


“Still not a yes,” Eddie says, taking a tentative step forward and reaching for both of Richie’s hands. “What happened?”

“I thought about… Bowers,” Richie whispers. Eddie’s expression turns cold. “And I just. Dunno. I had to know.”   


“Had to know what?”

“Where Mike and Ben put him.”

“Oh, Jesus, Rich.” Eddie starts dragging him away. “We can’t talk about that here.”   


“But the tree-”

“We’ll get it tomorrow.”

Eddie drives Richie’s car home then gently guides him up the stairs like he’s drunk or hurt. He touches Richie with soft hands and even softer words which, coming from Eddie, feels serious. He wonders how he looks; probably worse than he feels, if Eddie’s concerned looks are anything to go by. He deposits himself on the sofa and leans his head back whilst Eddie fetches some water.

“Here. Drink as much as you can, it always helps.”   


“Thanks.”

Eddie sits down next to him but he’s practically on the edge of the couch, hands folded in his lap and face white with worry.

“Eds, really. I’m okay. Sorry I worried you.”   


“Fuck- sorry? Don’t be fucking sorry, Jesus Christ,” Eddie says, much more himself than he has been for the past fifteen minutes.

“Okay.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”   


Richie laughs coldly and Eddie looks mildly hurt before he fixes his expression.

“No- I wasn’t laughing at you. Just. That’s kind of what got me going.”

“Huh?”

Richie sighs. “I… thought about how we don’t talk about the big stuff. Any of us, not just me and you. That led to me thinking about Bowers and, well- y’know.”

“I see,” Eddie says slowly, still a little confused.

“I killed someone,” Richie says just to get a feel for how the words taste.

“You stopped a  _ murderer _ ,” Eddie says fiercely.   


Richie powers on, not able to differentiate between the two statements just yet.

“And I called Mike because I suddenly couldn’t  _ not _ talk about it. But clearly that was a fucking mistake because then I couldn’t really breath and I couldn’t find you and- shit. Huh. I’m a mess.”   


Eddie smiles a little sad, understanding smile. “A little bit.”   


“Couldn’t even wait ‘til your second day here,” Richie says, trying for a joke. It works. Eddie huffs out a laugh and his shoulders relax a little.

“Well, I was expecting a five-star dinner and a midnight trip to the observatory, but this works too.”

“Didn’t want to show all my cards on the first night, I guess.”   


“You’re right, this is a much more realistic set-up.”   


Richie’s face must fall or something because Eddie is crowding forward into his space and looking apologetic.

“Are you- can I hug you, or is that too much?”

Richie reaches his arms forward like a child and Eddie falls into them easily.

“I didn’t like it as a kid when people did. That's why I asked,” Eddie continues, now muffled against Richie’s chest.

“Hmm?”   


“When I’d have a panic attack. Bill and Ben would wanna hug me and I fucking hated that. Made me feel weak. Mike was always helpful. You were best, though.”   


“Really?” Richie asks, letting his eyes fall shut.   


“Yeah. I always wanted you there.”

“I always wanted to be there.”   


Eddie sits up suddenly. “Wait, no, this isn’t about me, what the fuck-”   


“Get back down here.”

Eddie goes easily but still looks troubled.

“I feel like  _ you’re _ comforting  _ me _ ,” he says quietly.

“Trust me,” Richie says, squeezing him tighter. “This is entirely selfish.”

Around twenty-four hours later Richie is still sitting on his couch with his arm around Eddie but with a calmer demeanour, a living room full of Christmas decorations and the Losers spread out around him.

Patty (who Richie is absolutely obsessed with, by the way) shares the couch with him and Eddie, squished in on Richie’s left hand side. Stan sits on the arm of the couch next to her, twirling one of her dark curls around his finger absentmindedly. Mike takes the armchair, lying across it sideways and looking ridiculously relaxed. Bill sits on the floor with his legs crossed, leaning up against the chair. Bev and Ben are squished into one beanbag; Richie wishes he had thought to capture a picture of Eddie’s face when he revealed that he owned a beanbag. It was priceless.

_ The Holiday  _ plays on the muted TV. The Christmas tree lights are on, casting a golden glow over the scene. Their warmth is nothing compared to the one Richie feels inside him.

“Jude Law in this scene is my dream man,” Patty sighs wistfully.

“Just this one scene? Not the whole film?” Richie laughs.

At the same time, Stan pulls gently on Patty’s hair and says, “Hey!”

“Oh, come on,” Patty grins up at him. “You love Mr. Napkinhead.”

“How many times have you guys watched this film?” Ben asks innocently.   


“Stan makes us watch it twice every Christmas.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Stan says over their laughter. “Unfortunately, Pats, I have no shame with these guys. You can’t embarrass me.”   


“Oh, I bet I could,” Patty says wickedly.

“Tell me later,” Richie pleads.   


“Obviously.”

“I don’t get the Jude Law thing,” Eddie says kind of suddenly, intently watching the screen.   


“Are you kidding, Eds?” Richie says, head lolling in his direction. “You  _ wouldn’t _ want him for Christmas?’

“I think I prefer Jack Black’s character.”

“Of course you do,” Bev mumbles into her wine. Richie shoots her a look.

They all sip their drinks in silence for a moment, watching as Cameron Diaz crawls into a fort and accidentally becomes step-mother of the year, until Mike suddenly breaks the peace.   


“I used to have a crush on the Grinch.”   


“What-”

“-The fuck?”

“How?”   


“When?”   


“Animated or Carrey?”

“Carrey, obviously,” Mike answers Richie, looking unbothered by the outbursts of disgust that continue to explode around him.   


“He’s  _ green _ ,” Eddie says, as if that settles it.   


“So is Shrek,” Ben offers.   


“You find  _ Shrek _ sexy?” Bev shrieks.

“Oh, no. Just saying.”   


“No one said anything about  _ sexy _ , anyway. Mike said it was a crush,” Patty says simply.

“Does that make it any better?” Stan replies.

“Can the Grinch be sexy?” Bill asks, looking deeply troubled.   


“Was it the little Santa outfit that did it for you, Mikey?” Richie says, thrilled.

“Dude, that’s gross,” Eddie whines.

“Let’s allow Mike to explain?” Ben suggests.

“Thank you, Ben. I was obsessed with Jim Carrey when it came out, so when I watched it I guess it sort of… travelled over," Mike says, unbothered as ever, with a wave of his wine glass that makes Eddie tense up.

“I feel like the Grinch is a sexless being,” Richie ponders.

“Oh, I dunno. He really went for it with that sexy-mayor’s-wife Who,” Bev says.

“See! If a Who can be sexy why can’t the Grinch?” Mike says. 

“Grinch rights,” Eddie mumbles.

“Grinch rights!”

“Grinch rights!”

“Wait,” Bill says. “Mikey, is this you coming out to us? By telling us you’re into  _ the Grinch _ ?”   


“Huh. Guess it is.”

“Hey! Congrats, buddy. Welcome to the club. The gay one, not the Grinch-fucking one,” Richie says.

Everyone echoes this general sentiment, offering Mike congrats and reaffirming words that Richie knows he doesn’t really need, but appreciates all the same. Richie realises he’d never thought about it consciously but had always assumed Mike wasn’t straight, though maybe it was wishful thinking on his part, that he wasn’t alone in this - then again, he’d definitely noticed that Mike never had shown an interest in Bev (real or fake) when they were kids and that was a pretty big indicator, seeing as Richie doesn’t know a man alive (that’s attracted to women) who wouldn’t want Bev at least a little bit.

Eddie raises his glass. “Cheers to the inherent homoeroticism of the Grinch.”

Richie glows in his direction. “I am obsessed with you.”

Stan and Patty have to leave on Christmas Eve  _ Eve _ to join Patty’s family for their version of Christmas, which kind of sucks, but Richie uses it as a reason to pack in as much festive joy as possible for the next couple of days. LA isn’t particularly Christmassy in the traditional way but there’s a couple of markets that they spend the day browsing (Eddie shouting at Richie all the way round for not having done his shopping yet) before heading back to Richie’s to unload and get changed. Richie’s booked them a table at his favourite restaurant, the one he always tries to persuade people to host his meetings at, and he’s excited to show him this piece of his heart. There’s not much specific about this city that he loves, it’s more so just convenient, but places like this make him feel a little more settled.

It’s a homely sort of place, with mismatched wooden furniture and low, warm lighting. The hostess greets Richie by name with a warm smile and shows him to his favourite table; a round one that’s by the back window, displaying a perfect view of the walled garden that’s lit up by multicoloured fairy lights. They sit down - Richie, then Eddie, Mike, Bill, Ben, Bev, Patty and Stan completing the circle. Richie immediately orders two bottles of champagne.

“Pulling out all the stops?” Bev grins over at him.

“Well,” Richie says, shrugging. “It’s basically Christmas.”

“I’ll have a lemonade, thanks,” Patty kindly tells the waitress.

“Oh, come on, Pats! It’s Christmas,” Richie complains.

“Trust me, I’d love a glass of champagne,” Patty says, sharing a wicked grin with Stan. “It’s more like I  _ need  _ a lemonade.”

There’s a long moment of silence wherein everyone looks equally confused, except Stan, who’s smiling like he’s the cat that got the cream.

“Oh my God! Are you…?” Bev says, squealing when Patty nods.

“Congratulations!”   


“Mazel tov!”

“That’s amazing, you guys,” Bill says, eyes watering.

Amongst the cheers and well-wishes, Eddie leans close to Richie in a conspiratorial manner.

“What’s going on?” he murmurs.   


“We’re celebrating, duh!”   


Eddie’s eyebrows draw so close together they’re practically one. “What?”

“Oh my God,” Richie laughs, delighted.

“Eddie…” Stan says, exasperated, having listened in. “When a man and a woman love each other very much-”

“Oh!” Eddie exclaims. His face lights up entirely. “Oh, shit! That’s fucking great, guys, congrats!”

Everyone laughs at Eddie, which he seems to be oddly proud of, before being distracted by the arrival of seven champagne flutes and one glass of lemonade, complete with a stripy paper straw and mini umbrella. Patty holds it up for inspection, looking so pleased that Richie wants to squeeze her. In fact, he reaches across Stan and grabs her hand until Eddie yanks him backwards and bitches at him for his table manners.

They order half of the menu, cheese boards and pizzas and side salads and sharing platters, making sure that Patty gets twice as much as everyone else. She tells them she’s pregnant with a baby, not a litter, but Richie counts her eating at least nine arancini balls.

When they’re waiting for their cab later that night - half the group have gone ahead, it’s just Richie, Eddie, Bill and Ben left - the air has that lazy LA chill and the streets are filled with twenty-somethings. Eddie and Bill are both drunk, arguing over the credibility of a book Richie’s never heard of, whilst Ben leans against the wall next to him. Richie didn’t think he was drunk but as he lets his head fall back a little too hard, Ben’s face comes into focus weirdly slowly. He’s grinning and red in the face.

“‘Sup, Hanscom?”

“I don’t know.”

“Cool. Me neither.”

“Do we have to?”

“Have to what?” Richie says, quickly losing track of this conversation as he watches Eddie kick at Bill’s ankles.

“Know.”

“Know  _ what _ ?” Richie asks, well aware he sounds like a little kid.

Ben smiles, genuine and patient. “Know what’s  _ up _ . I’m sick of, y’know, spending every waking moment trying to work out how I feel because I couldn't  _ remember _ how to feel. I just want to exist, now.”

Richie blinks in surprise. “Woah. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“That’s your Christmas present.”

“It better not be! I got you a diamond ring.”

Ben laughs warmly. “I have a feeling Eds would have something to say about that.”

At his name, Eddie glances up from where he’s jabbing his finger into Bill’s chest and raises his eyebrows expectantly. Richie shakes his head and Eddie smiles, then frowns, then goes back to shouting at Bill.

“I think you might be right, Benny.”

They stumble back into the apartment and tuck the others into their spare beds; of which only one is an actual bed (claimed by Stan and Patty) and the rest are sofas and air mattresses, but whatever. They make do.

It’s past midnight, so Richie keeps whispering about how it’s only two days until Christmas as they undress, whilst Eddie hisses at him to shut the fuck up. Richie tucks himself into bed whilst Eddie sneaks off to the bathroom to do his extensive bedtime routine.

Taking his absence as a sign, a few minutes later the cats traipse in one by one and jump up next to Richie.

“Oh, Eddie’s not gonna like that,” Richie murmurs, running his hand through Jerry’s fur with one hand and stroking Loki’s paw with the other. Olive and Tom lie together, curled up like dormice in a nest. “And he’s your new dad, okay? Don’t go pissing him off. He’s pretty important.”

Light spills into the room as Eddie re-enters, smiling softly. Richie knows he’s been caught and thinks he should probably be embarrassed, but he couldn’t care less. He’s finally starting to realise that Eddie  _ knows _ all of his weird traits, annoying habits and fucked-up thoughts and yet he’s still here, for Christmas and for life, standing in his bedroom doorway wearing one of Richie’s college crewnecks and a single bit of tinsel behind his ear.

Not bothering to explain his train of thought, Richie says: “A Richie’s for life, not just for Christmas.”   


“Good to know,” Eddie says, unblinking. He closes the door behind him and removes the tinsel.

“Elves get you?”

“Pretty much. I’ve always thought Bev has an elfish look about her.”

“Oh, honey, that’s so hypocritical.”

“Fuck you. Budge up. Wait! Don’t disturb the cats.”

Richie, in the middle of shuffling over a little haphazardly, looks up at Eddie with a watery smile. Eddie rolls his eyes, already knowing what’s got Richie all choked up, then crawls under the duvet and flops himself practically on top of Richie.

In the dark, Richie holds Eddie close in their shared space, forcing himself nearer to him as he always has. And he knows now that Eddie has, too. That magnetic pull, that need to exist in each other’s orbit, however it might appear on the outside - wrestling on the playground, ruffling each other’s hair, sharing hammocks or chairs or beds, fighting over the last slice of pizza - it all meant the same thing: that in a world this vast and mean and scary, Richie and Eddie managed to find each other not once, but twice, and for almost thirty years now they’ve each been the other’s person. Whether that was in a shared hammock, or across the country with a fog of supernatural amnesia, or curled up together on the same side of a king-sized bed. It’s always been them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoooooosh all done! please please leave a comment if you feel inclined, i've loved reading everyone's thoughts so far. i hope the ending doesn't feel too abrupt - i was going to go into christmas and everything but i felt like i came to a natural stopping point
> 
> i have a couple more lighthearted fics in the works that i might post if anyone would be interested in that? one's a wedding meet-cute au and one's an early twenties losers @ college au. i love a good au but i've always been more nervous about posting them bc i'm scared it'll be out of character lol
> 
> stay safe and much luv

**Author's Note:**

> apologies for any mistakes i'm bad at proofreading
> 
> i am not on clown town twitter (booo) but i would absolutely love to know what you think so please leave a comment if ya fancy it :-) thanks for reading!


End file.
